TON 


"THESE  ARE  THE  SPIKES  THAT  \VKKK  GLEAMING." 


C  ITY   BALLADS 


BY 

WILL  CARLETON 

AUTHOR  OF  "FARM  BALLADS  "  ^  FARM  LEGENDS"  "FARM  FESTIVALS' 

"YOUNG  FOLKS'  CENTENNIAL  RHYMES"  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


NEW     YORK 
HARPER     £     BROTHERS,    FRANKLIN     SQUARE 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1885,  by 

HARPER   &   BROTHERS, 
In  the    Office   of  the    Librarian    of    Congress,  at  Washington. 


All  rights  reserved. 


TO 

ADORA 

FRIEND,  COMRADE,  LOVER,  WIFE 


775695 


PREFACE. 


"WHEN  city  people  go  among  forests  and  hills,  they  drink  in  the  fresh 
air  and  weird  scenery  of  rural  surroundings,  with  much  more  relish,  en 
joyment,  and  appreciation,  than  do  the  life-long  residents  they  find  there. 

For  the  same  reason,  the  great  drama  of  metropolitan  existence  falls 
most  forcibly  upon  those  just  from  the  clear  streams  and  green  meadows 
of  the  country.  Their  impressions  then  are  deeper,  and  their  feelings 
more  intense  than  if  they  were  city  born  and  bred. 

"With  the  latter  fact  in  view,  this  book  is  an  effort  to  reproduce  some 
of  the  effects  of  city  scenes  and  character  upon  the  intellect  and  imagina 
tion  of  two  people  from  the  country : 

First,  a  young  student,  who  has  travelled  the  well-beaten  roads  of  a 
college  course,  but  is  just  entering  real  life,  and  now  for  the  first  time 
walks  the  paved  and  palace-bordered  streets  of  which  he  has  heard  and 
read  so  much. 

Second,  an  old  farmer,  with  very  little  "book-learning,"  but  a  clear 
brain,  a  warm  heart,  and  independent  judgment,  and  a  habit  of  philoso 
phizing  upon  everything  he  sees,  which  habit  he  brings  to  the  city,  and 
applies  to  the  strange  facts  he  witnesses. 

These,  with  certain  incidental  thoughts  and  characters  encountered 
and  discussed,  constitute  the  present  work.  It  will  be  found,  as  intended, 
sketchy  and  suggestive  rather  than  elaborate  and  complete.  ^Note-books 
and  diaries  are  designed,  not  so  much  for  the  history  of  a  career  or  an 
event,  as  a  light  to  the  memory,  a  stimulus  to  the  imagination,  and  a  help 
to  the  heart. 


io  Preface. 

It  is  the  hope  of  the  author  that  his  book  may  perform  those  offices 
for  you.  his  readers,  and  that  it  will  rouse  your  pity  of  pain,  your  enjoy 
ment  of  honest  mirth,  your  hatred  of  sham  and  wrong,  and  your  love  and 
adoration  of  the  Resolute  and  the  Good,  and  their  winsome  child,  the 
Beautiful. 

In  which  case  he  shakes  hands  with  his  large  and  loved  constituency, 

and  continues  happy. 

W.  C. 


CONTEXTS. 


WEALTH  . .  15 

THE  LOVELY  Yore G  MAN . .  2S 

IF  FD  A  M TT  T  TOX  MILLTONS 

FARMER  STEEBINS  ox  ROLLERS  40 

WAXT 

THAT  SWAMP  OF  DEATH - .    5g 

A  SEWING -GIRL'S  DIARY  .  »u 

FIRE ~ 

WffEX  PBaMETHEr?   STOLE  THE  FLAME 77 

FLASH  :  THE  FTREMAX'S  STOKT 79 

How  WE  FOUGHT  THE  FERE.  .  >t 

"You  WILL  TELL  3£E  WHESE  is  COXRADT"  .  90 

WATER 

" 

THE  DEAD  STOWAWAY 97 

THE  WEDDING  OF  THE  Towys .  106 

FARMER  STEBBDC s  AT  OCEAN  GROVE ...  10T 

VICE ..  us 

THE  BOY-  CONVICT'S  STORY 115 

FAR>CER  STEBBINS  ON  THE  BOWERY ...  11$ 

FARMER  STEBBINS  AHEAD 

THE  SLUGGING  MATCH.  . 


1 2  Contents. 

PAGE 

VIRTUE •••  132 

Including 

MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE 136 

THE  MARCH  OF  THE  CHILDREN 141 

TRAVEL 143 

Including 

HER  TOUR •    •  144 

AT  THE  SUMMIT  OP  THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT 148 

THE  SILENT  WHEEL 155 

FARMER  AND  WHEEL  ;  OR,  THE  NEW  LOCHLNVAR 157 

.ONLY  A  Box 166 

HOME 170 

Including 

LET  THE  CLOTH  BE  WHITE  .  .  .  . . , 172 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


PAGE 

"  These  are  the  spires  that  were  gleaming  " Frontispiece. 

"I saw  tall  derricks  by  the  hundred  rise " 21 

' '  /  reached  my  hand  down  for  it  and  it  stopped  " 29 

"Wlien  all  to  once  the  wheels  departed  suddenly  above,  an'  took  along  my  heels  " 43 

Farmer  Stebbins  on  Rollers 45 

"  Yes,  it's  straight  and  true,  good  preacher  t  every  word  that  you  have  said" 51 

"  Choked  and  strangled  by  the  foul  breath  of  the  chimneys  over  there  " 54 

"  Oh,  the  air  is  pure  and  wholesome  wliere  some  babies  coo  and  rest,  and  they  trim 

them  out  with  ribbons,  and  they  feed  them  with  tJie  best " 55 

"Weary  old  man  with  the  snow-drifted  hair,  not  by  your  fault  are  you  suffering  there"    59 

"  Is't  the  same  girl  that  stood,  one  night,  there  in  the  wide  hall's  thrilling  light?" 65 

"And  hateful  hunger  has  come  in" 69 

"He  begged  that  horse's  pardon  upon  his  bended  knees  " 80 

"Away  he  rushed  like  a  cyclone  for  the  head  o'  'Number  Three'  " 82 

' '  Laid  down  in  his  harness  " 83 

How  we  Fought  the  Fire 87 

"Battered  and  bruised,  forever  abused,  he  lay  by  the  moaning  sea" 99 

' '  Miss  Sunnyhopes  she  waded  out " 108 

"  Two  inland  noodles,  for  our  first  acquaintance  with  the  sea  " 109 

' '  A- floating  on  her  dainty  back  " 110 

"I tried  to  kick  this  ' lovely  wave '" 110 

"Heels  over  head — all  in  a  bunch !" Ill 

"We  voted  that  we'd  liad  enough " Ill 

"  To  make  four  hundred  dollars  clear,  an'  help  the  children  too" 121 

"We  come  'thin  part  of  one  of  it" 123 

"  They  'put  their  heads  together '  in  a  new  an'  painful  way  " 127 

' '  He  makes  himself  a  bigger  fool  than  all  the  fools  lie  makes  " 129 


1 4  Illustrations. 

PAGE 
The  Salvation  Army 140 

The  March  of  the  Children 141,  142 

From  the  Monument 149 

"And  he  stood  there,  like  a  colonel,  with  her  trembling  on  his  arm" 159 

Chasing  the  Bicycle 153 

"  Only  a  box,  secure  and  strong,  rough  and  wooden,  and  six  feet  long" 167 

"And  carry  back,  from  out  our  plenteous  store,  enough  to  keep  himself  a  fortnight 

more" 172 

"  The  hungry  city  children  are  coming  here  to-night " 173 

"  He  heard  its  soft  tones  through  the  cottages  creep,  from  fond  mothers  singing  their 

babies  to  sleep  " 177 


CITY    BALLADS, 


WEALTH. 

[From  Arthur  SelwyrCs  Note-looTcJ\ 

HERE  in  The  City  I  ponder, 
Through  its  long  pathways  I  wander. 
These  are  the  spires  that  were  gleaming 
All  through  my  juvenile  dreaming. 
This  is  The  Something  I  heard,  far  away, 
When,  at  the  close  of  a  tired  Summer  day, 
Resting  from  work  on  the  lap  of  a  lawn, 
Gazing  to  whither  The  Sun-god  had  gone, 
Leaving  behind  him  his  mantles  of  gold — 
This  is  The  Something  by  which  I  was  told ; 
"Bend  your  head,  dreamer,  and  listen — 
Come  to  my  splendors  that  glisten! 
Either  to  triumph  they  call  you, 
Or  to  what  worst  could  befall  you  f" 
This  is  The  Something  that  thrilled  my  desires, 
When  the  weird  Morning  had  kindled  his  fires, 
And  the  gray  city  of  clouds  in  the  east 
Lighted  its  streets  as  for  pageant  or  feast, 
Whisp'ring  —  my  spirit  elating  — 
"  Come  to  me,  boy,  I  am  waiting ! 
Bring  me  your  muscle  and  spirit  and  brain- 
Here  to  my  glory-strewn,  ruin-strewn  plain !" 


1 6  City  Ballads. 

Treading  the  trough  of  the  furrtfw, 
Digging  where  life -rootlets  burrow, 
Blade  of  the  food-harvest  swinging, 
In  the  barns  toiling  and  singing, 
Breath  of  a  hay- meadow  smelling, 
Forest-trees  loving  and  felling  — 
Where'er  my  spirit  was  turning, 
-  Lived  that  mysterious  yearning ! 
,  v  When-  in  the  old  country  school-house  I  conned 
.  t.  ,..  .•.••^gpnds'of  life  in  the  broad  world  beyond  — 
:*:/"••       \Vlieh'  in'  the  trim  hamlet  -  college  I  cast 

Wondering  glances  at  days  that  were  past  — 
Ever  I  longed  for  the  walls  and  the  streets, 
And  the  rich  conflict  that  energy  meets! 


So  I  have  come:  but  The  City  is  great. 
Bearing  me  down  like  a  brute  with  its  weight. 
So  I  have  come :  but  The  City  is  cold, 
And  I  am  lonelier  now  than  of  old. 


Yet,  'tis  the  same  restless  story : 
Even  to  fail  here  were  glory ! 
Grand,  to  be  part  of  this  ocean 
Of  matter  and  mind  and  emotion ! 
Here  flow  the  streams  of  endeavor, 
Cityward  trending  forever. — 
Wheat- stalks  that  tassel  the  field, 
Harvests  of  opulent  yield, 
Grass -blades  that  fence  with  each  other, 
Flower -blossoms  —  sister  and  brother — 
Roots  that  are  sturdy  and  tender, 
Stalks  in  your  thrift  and  your  splendor, 
Mind  that  is  fertile  and  daring, 
Face  that  true  beauty  is  wearing — 


Wealth. 

All  that  is  strongest  and  fleetest, 
All  that  are  dainty  and  sweetest. 
Look  to  the  domes  and  the  glittering  spires, 
Waiting  for  you  with  majestic  desires ! 
List  to  The  City's  gaunt,  thunderous  roar, 
Calling  and  calling  for  you  evermore ! 
Long  in  the  fields  you  may  labor  and  wait— 
You  and  your  tribe  may  come  early  or  late ; 
Beauty  and  excellence  dwell  and  will  dwell 
Oft  amid  garden  and  moorland  and  fell ; 
Long  generations  may  hold  them, 
Centuries  oft  can  enfold  them ; 
But  the  rich  City's  they  some  time  shall  be, 
Sure  as  the  spring  is  the  food  of  the  sea. 


[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

SKPTEMBER  20,  18 — . 

Wind  in  the  south-west ;  weather  wondrous  fine ; 

Thermometer  'twixt  seventy-eight  and  nine. 

Ground  rather  dry ;  sun  flails  us  over-warm ; 

It's  most  time  for  the  equinoctial  storm. 

Family  healthy  as  could  be  desired ; 

Except  we're  somewhat  mind  and  body  tired 

At  moving  over  such  a  lengthy  road, 

And  settling  down  here  in  our  town  abode, 

And  wrestling  with  the  pains*  that  filter  through  one 

When  he  gives  up  an  old  home  for  a  new  one. 

Old  Calendar,  you've  always  stood  me  true ; 
Now  I'll  change  works,  and  do  the  same  by  you ! 
You're  just  as  good  as  when,  with  aching  arm, 
I  cleared  and  worked  that  eighty- acre  farm! 
And  every  night,  in  those  hard,  dear  old  days, 
'Twas  one  of  my  most  unconditional  ways, 
When  to  my  labors  I  had  said  Good- night, 
And  recompensed  my  home-made  appetite, 


1 8  City  Ballads. 

And  talked  with  Wife,  and  traded  family  views, 
And  gathered  all  the  latest  township  news, 
And  dealt  my  sons  a  sly  fraternal  hit, 
And  flirted  with  my  daughters  just  a  bit, 
And  through  the  papers  tried  my  way  to  see, 
So  the  world  shouldn't  slip  out  from  under  me, 
As  I  was  saying — in  those  sweet  old  days, 
'Twas  one  of  my  most  unconditional  ways, 
To  go  to  you,  old  book,  before  I'd  sleep, 
And  hand  you  over  all  the  day  to  keep. 

I  gave  you  up  what  weather  I  could  find, 
Likewise  the  different  phases  of  my  mind ; 
What  my  hard  hands  from  morn  to  night  had  done, 
And  what  my  mind  had  been  subsisting  on ; 
What  accidents  had  touched  my  brain  with  doubt, 
And  what  successes  it  had  whittled  out ; 
How  well  I  had  been  able  to  control 
The  weather  fluctuations  of  my  soul ; 
What  progress  or  what  failures  I  had  made 
In  spying  round  and  stealing  Nature's  trade ; 
The  seeds  of  actions  planted  long  ago, 
And  whether  they  had  blossomed  out  or  no ; 
And  oft,  from  what  you  of  the  past  could  tell, 
I've  learned  to  steer  my  future  pretty  well. 

And  now  I'M  ETCH  (wrho  ever  thought  'twould  be !) 

I'll  stand  by  you,  as  you  have  stood  by  me ; 

And  now  I'm  "  City  'people"-  —  having  moved 

(My  circumstances  suddenly  improved) 

Into  this  town,  with  some  quick-gotten  pelf, 

To  educate  my  children  and  myself, 

And  give  my  wife,  who  has  a  pedigree, 

A  chance  to  flutter  round  her  family  tree, 

And  show  her  natural  city  airs  and  graces 

(Which  didn't  "  take "  quite  so  well  in  country  places) 

Now  we  are  here,  old  fellow,  while  we  stay 

I'll  give  you  ail  the  news  from  day  to  day. 


Wealth.  1 9 

I'll  find  the  good  that  in  this  city  lurks, 

By  regular,  systematic,  hard  days'  works ; 

I'll  rummage  fearless  round  amongst  the  harm, 

As  when  I  hoed  up  thistles  on  my  farm ; 

Shake  hands  with  Virtue,  help  Sin  wrhile  I  spurn  it, 

And  if  there's  anything  to  learn,  I'll  learn  it. 

How  little  I  suspected,  by  the  way- 
Scrambling  for  pennies  in  that  patch  of  clay, 
The  bare  expenses  of  .our  lives  to  meet— 
That  waves  of  wealth  were  washing  at  my  feet ! 
And  wThen  my  hard  and  rather  lazy  soil 
Sprung  a  leak  upward  with  petroleum- oil— 
"When,  through  the  wonder  in  my  glad  old  eyes, 
I  saw  tall  derricks  by  the  hundred  rise, 
Flinging  wealth  at  me  with  unceasing  hand, 
And  turning  to  a  mine  my  hard  old  land, 
Until  it  seemed  as  if  the  spell  would  hold 
Till  every  blade  of  grass  was  turned  to  gold — 
I  felt,  as  never  yet  had  come  to  me, 
How  little  round  the  curves  of  life  we  see ; 
Or,  in  our  rushings  on,  suspect  or  view 
What  sort  of  stations  we  are  coming  to ! 
It  brought  a  similar  twinge — though  not  so  bad — 
As  once,  when  losing  every  cent  I  had. 

But  still  it  could  not  shift  my  general  views ; 
My  mind  didn't  faint  at  one  good  piece  of  news. 
I  think  I'd  too  much  ballast  'neath  my  sail 
To  be  capsized  by  one  good  prosperous  gale 
(Same  as  I  didn't  lie  down  and  give  up  all 
That  other  time,  when  tipped  up  by  a  squall). 
I  didn't  go  spreeing  for  my  money's  sake, 
Or  with  my  business  matters  lie  awake ; 
'Twould  never  do,  as  I  informed  my  wife, 
To  let  a  little  money  spoil  our  life ! 

And  now  I'm  rich  (who  ever  thought  'twould  be !) 
I'll  look  about,  and  see  what  I  can  see ; 


2O  City  Ballads. 

Appoint  myself  a  visiting  committee, 
With  power  to  act  in  all  parts  of  the  city ; 
Growl  when  I  must,  commend  whene'er  I  can, 
And  lose  no  chance  to  help  my  fellow-man. 
For  he  who  joy  on  others'  paths  has  thrown, 
Will  find  there's  some  left  over  for  his  own ; 
And  he  who  leads  his  brother  toward  the  sky, 
Will  in  the  journey  bring  himself  more  nigh. 

And  what  I  see  and  think,  in  my  own  way, 

I'll  tell  to  you,  Old  Calendar,  each  day ; 

And  if  I  choose  to  do  the  same  in  rhyme, 

What  jury  would  convict  me  of  a  crime? 

For  every  one,  from  palaces  to  attics, 

Has  caught,  some  time  or  other,  The  Rhythmatics. 


\From  Arthur  SelwyrCs  Note- book  J] 

Still  through  The  City  I  ponder, 

Still  do  I  wonder  and  wander. 

City — unconscious  descendant 

Of  olden-time  cities  resplendent ! 

Child  of  rich  forefathers  hoary, 

Clad  in  their  gloom  and  their  glory! — 
Dream  I  of  you  in  the  rich,  mellow  past, 
Throbbing  with  life,  and  with  Death  overcast. 

Thebes — not  to  you,  crushed  and  ghastly  and  dumb, 

Even  the  wreck -loving  Ivy  will  come ! 

Where  stood  your  hundred  broad,  world-famous  gates, 

Now  a  black  Arab  for  charity  waits. 

Not  like  this  City — metropolis  bold — - 

Where  the  whole  world  brings  its  goods  and  its  gold ! 

Babylon — here  the  queen's  gardens  climbed  high, 
Painting  their  fiowers  on  the  blue  of  the  sky : 


"l   SAW   TALL    DERRICKS    BY   THE    HUNDRED   RISE." 


Wealth. 

This  is  where  sinners,  one  asinine  hoar, 
Thought  they  could  travel  to  Heaven  by  tower. 
(How  like  some  sinners  to-day,  whose  desires 
Mount  by  the  way  of  their  greed-builded  spires !) 

Troy — of  rare  riches  and  valor  possessed, 
Kuined  fore'er  by  one  beautiful  guest— 
(Here  many  Helens,  though  less  of  renown, 
Do  for  some  men  what  she  did  for  a  town !) 

Wondrous  Palmyra,  whose  island  of  green, 

'Mid  the  bleak  sand,  reared  the  beautiful  queen 
(Sweet -faced  Zenobia,  peerless 
Proud  in  her  virtue,  and  fearless) 

In  this  metropolis,  virtuously  grand, 

Many  a  queen  is  a  joy  to  the  land! 

Tyre — the  huge  pillars  that  groaned  under  thee, 
Rest  in  the  depths  of  a  desolate  sea; 
Long  may  it  be  ere  the  spray's  salted  showers 
Foam  o'er  the  walls  of  this  city  of  ours! 

Mound -men's  vast  cities,  whose  graves  we  accost, 
Even  your  names  are  in  ruins — and  lost. 
What  if,  some  time  when  this  nation  is  nought, 
Yainly  our  names  in  our  graves  should  be  sought! 


Cities  that  yet  are  to  flourish, 
That  the  rich  Future  must  nourish  ! 
Where  will  you  take  up  your  stations — 
Where  set  your  massive  foundations  ? 
Where  are  the  slumbering  meadows, 
Dreaming  of  clouds  through  their  shadows, 
That  by  rough  wheels  rudely  shaken, 
Into  new  life  shall  awaken? 
Harbors  that  placidly  float 
Nought  but  the  fisherman's  boat, 


24  City  Ballads. 

Think  you  of  fleets  that  shall  lie 

Under  the  blue  of  your  sky; 

When  shall  be  built  on  your  land 

Palaces  wealthily  grand; 

"When  in  your  face  from  tall  spires 

Gleam  the  electrical  fires? 

Cities  that  yet  are  to  be, 

You  are  not  phantoms  to  me! 

You  are  as  certain  and  'sure 

As  that  Old  Time  shall  endure. 


Stars  in  the  distant,  mysterious  sky, 
Flashing  and  flaming  and  dancing  on  high, 

Each  is  an  earth  to  its  millions, 

Each  has  its  domes  and  pavilions. 
Cities,  I  see  you — by  reasoning  led— 
On  the  great  map  with  blue  leaves  overhead. 
Seaport  and  lakeport  and  rich  inland  town, 
Capital  city,  and  village  of  brown ; 

Thanking  the  prairie -food- givers, 

Strung  on  the  winding  star- rivers. 
Earths  that  can  signal  to  earths,  every  one, 
With  the  bright  torches  you  stole  from  the  sun, 

Each  on  its  surface  has  strown 

Cities  and  towns  of  its  own, 

Fraught  with  their  crimes  and  their  graces, 

Full  of  mysterious  places. 

They  are  no  myths  unto  me — 

Clearly  their  outlines  I  see; 

Millions  of  towns  I  descry 

Hanging  o'er  me  from  the  sky. 


Still  through  the  paths  of  the  town, 
Dreaming,  I  walk  up  and  down. 


Wealth.  2  5 


Is  it  so  much  of  a,  wonder — 
Part  of  this  whole,  yet  asunder, 
I  in  this  throng,  and  I  only— 
That  I  am  wretched  and  lonely? 
Loneliness — loneliness  ever— 
Leaving  me  utterly,  never ! 
Yes,  I  am  part  of  this  ocean 
Of  matter  and  mind  and  emotion ; 
Yet  how  entirely  apart, 
Severed  in  mind  and  in  heart ! 


[From  farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

SEPTEMBKR  25,  18—. 

Wealth — wealth — wealth — wealth !     I  never  had  been  led. 

From  all  I'd  thought  and  dreamed  and  heard  and  read, 

To  think  so  much  wealth,  in  whatever  while, 

Could  be  raked  up  into  one  shining  pile ! 

Not  long  ago,  a  hundred  dollars  clear, 

Big  as  a  hay- stack  would  to  me  appear. 

When  first  a  thousand  dollars  made  me  smile, 

I  sympathized  with  Croesus  quite  a  while ; 

But  looking  round  here  inakes  me  feel  the  same 

As  if  I  hadn't  a  nickel  to  my  name ! 

Wealth — wealth!  why,  every  acre  I  behold 
Has  cost  a  mine  of  Californi'  gold ! 
The  very  ground  one  building  here  might  fill 
Would  almost  buy  the  town  of  Tompkins  Hill! 

There  isn't  a  house  my  scrutiny  has  crossed 

But  catches  several  figures  in  its  cost ; 

And  when  your  eyes  into  the  parlor  go 

('Mongst  things  they  leave  the  curtains  up  to  show). 

And  see  the  carpets,  rugs,  and  draperies  rich, 

That  twine  ten  dollars  into   every  stitch, 


26  City  Ballads. 

And  view  great  pictures  that  such  prices  hold 
As  if  the  painter's  brush  were  dipped  in  gold ; 

And  when  along  the  roads  great  buggies  glide, 

With  covers  on,  and  rich-dressed  folks  inside, 

And  up  on  top  a  man  to  drive  the  team — 

As  fat  as  any  cat  brought  up  on  cream 

(Man  and  team  both),  the  driver  dressed  as  gay 

As  if  he  meant  to  marry  that  same  day, 

Or  wed  his  boss's  daughter  that  same  night 

(Which  some  consider  as  the  coachman's  right, 

And  think  it's  understood,  when  he  engages, 

A  daughter  should  be  thrown  in  with  his  wages), 

When  even  the  horses,  as  so  many  do, 

Wear  jewelry  that  cost  a  farm  or  two, 

You  wonder  in  what  tree -top  grew  the  cash 

To  buy  so  much  reality  and  trash ! 

Wealth — wealth — wealth — wealth  !  the  very  corner  stores 
Are  gold-mines  from  the  ceilings  to  the  floors! 
The  shop  we  thought  would  ruin  Cousin  Phil, 
Because  'twas  over -large  for  Tompkins  Hill, 
Would,  in  the  small  vest-pocket,  lose  its  way, 
Of  one  man's  place  I  wandered  through  to-day! 

And  then  the  banks — a  hundred  on  one  street — 
As  full  of  money  as  an  egg  of  meat 
(Although  one  never  knows  beyond  a  doubt 
What  colored  chickens  they'll  be  hatching  out); 

And  then  the  churches — elegant  to  view — - 

An  independent  fortune  in  each  pew. 

One  window-pane  in  one  big  church  that's  here 

Cost  more  than  our  old  preacher  made  per  year! 

(A  city  pastor's  salary,  I  declare, 

Would  keep  him  all  his  life,  with  cash  to  spare, 

A-preaching  in  that  little  house  of  wood, 

Holding  his  hearers'  eyes  in  all  he  could, 


Wealth.  2  7 

With  rolling  meadows  and  green  trees  in  view, 

And  fresh -complexioned  streamlets  wandering  through) ; 

And  then  the  rich  school -houses  in  this  town, 

"Where  children  can  be  taught  up-stairs  and  down, 

Swifter  (if  not  so  thorough),  I  suppose, 

Than  in  the  small  log  school-house,  where  I  rose 

From  Numeration  to  the  Hule  of  Three, 

And  had  Irregular  Verbs  whipped  into  me ; 

And  then  the  railroad  stations,  where,  each  day, 
Fortunes  on  wheels  rush  in  and  drive  away ; 
And  then  the   steamboats  paddling  up  and  down— 
Towns  swimming  on  their  way  from  town  to  town ; 

And  then  the  ladies,  in  both  street  and  store, 
Done  up  in  silks  and  satins,  spangled  o'er 
As  if  it  had  rained  diamonds  for  an  hour, 
And  they  had  gone  and  stood  out  in  the  shower ; 

And  then  the  rich  and  idle-houred  young  men — 
The  rising  generation's  "  Upper  10 " 
(With  the  "  1 "  left  off),  who  each  day,  no  doubt, 
Spend  twice  as  much  as  all  my  "setting  out," 
When  Father  said,  "  The  family  craft  is  full ; 
Launch  your  own  craft  and  show  us  how  to  pull." 

I  often  think,  when  past  a  dandy  glides, 
Throwing  his  (father's)  money  on  all  sides, 
And  peeking  under  each  young  lady's  veil, 
As  if  he'd  bought  her  at  a  mortgage  sale, 
How  shrewd  it  was  of  him,  right  on  the  start, 
To  have  a  father  who  was  rich  and  smart ! 
(Folks  often  pride  themselves  much,  by-the-way, 
Because  their  parents  greater  were  than  they.) 

Walking  to-day  along  Fifth  Avenue, 
A  slip  of  paper  on  the  sidewalk  flew 


28  City  Ballads. 

Before  my  eyes — some  one  the  same  had  dropped; 
I  reached  my  hand  down  for  it  and  it  stopped. 
I  picked  it  up — the  reading  on't  was  queer; 
I  think,  perhaps,  I'll  paste  it  right  in  here. 


THE  LOVELY  YOUNG  MAN. 

Oh  the  elements  varied — the  exquisite  plan — 

That  are  used  in  constructing  the  lovely  young  man ! 

His  face  he  has  easily  made  to  possess 

The  expression  of  nothing  within  to  express; 

His  hair  is  oiled  glossily  back  of  his  ears, 

Atop  of  his  head  an  equator  appears  ; 

His  scanty  mustache  has  symmetrical  bends, 

Is  groomed  with  precision,  and  waxed  at  both  ends; 

His  darling  complexion,  bewitching  to  see, 

Is  powdered  the  same  as  a  lady's  might  be. 

And  this  is  the  dear  whom  the  newspapers  rude 

Have  scornfully  treated,  and  christened  the  . 

The  mental  equipment  I'll  tell,  if  I  can, 
That  Nature  has  given  the  lovely  young  man : 
A  set  of  emotions  consistently  weak, 
To  go  with  a  creature  so  gentle  and  meek ; 
A  will  no  opposing  can  break  or  surmount 
(Concerning  all  matters  of  no  great  account); 
A  reasoning  wheel,  quite  correctly  revolved 
(When  used  on  small  questions  already  resolved); 
A  taste  for  each  gaudy  and  glistening  thing 
That  grows  on  the  vision  and  dies  on  the  wing. 
Elaborate  methods  and  principles  crude 
Encompass  the  mental  estate  of  the  . 

The  outer  habiliments  hastily  scan, 
Employed  in  adorning  the  lovely  young  man ! 
His  feet  two  triangular  cases  have  sought, 
By  which  his  five  toes  to  a  focus   are  brought ; 


"I   REACHED   MY   HAND   DOWN   FOR   IT   AND   IT   STOPPED." 


Wealth.  31 

The  sheathes  that  enfold  his  propellers  within 
Are  on  the  most  intimate  terms  with  his  skin; 
His  starch -tortured  collar  on  tip-toe  appears. 
Desirous  of  learning  the  length  of  his  ears ; 
And  fifteen -sixteenths  of  his  brain,  very  nigh, 
Has  run  all  to  blossom  and  stopped  in  his  tie. 
Such  some  of  the  splendors  mad  Fashion  has  strewed 
All  over  the  surface  comprising  the  -    — . 

Oh  measure  the  brief  philological  span 

Of  the  high-pressure  words  of  the  lovely  young  man!— 

"  B'  Jauve !  you  daun't  sayh  saw !  youah  playing  it  low ! 

Aw,  auyn't  she  a  daisy!     I  knaw  her,  y'  knaw. 

She's  thweet  on  me,  somehow,  though  why  I  dawn't  say, 

It  cawn't  be  my  beauty  5  it  must  be  my  way! 

Did  you  notith,  laust  night,  Chawley  Johnson's  neck-tie? 

It  paralyzed  me,  and  I  thought  I  should  d-i-e ! 

He's  quite  a  sound  f  ellaw  to  talk  to  awhile ; 

It's  weally  a  pity  he  isn't  our  style!" 

And  thus  talks  forever,  with  slight  interlude, 

The  creature  that  lately  was  christened  a  -    — . 

Oh  boys !  there  are  several  hundreds  of  ways 
To  make  yourselves  small  to  the  average  gaze ; 
Of  which  some  will  cost  you  considerably  less, 
Accomplishing  nearly  an  equal  success. 
Go  purchase  a  gilded  hand- organ  some  day, 
And  stand  on  the  corner  and  solemnly  play; 
Envelop  yourselves  in  the  skin  of  an  ape, 
Assuming  his  methods  as  well  as  his  shape ; 
Submit  to  refined  zoological  charms, 
And  carry  a  lap-dog  about  in  your  arms; 
But  don't  let  Destruction  upon  you  intrude, 
So  far  as  to  make  you  down  into  a  -   — . 


I  think  I  saw,  a  minute's  half  or  less, 

The  young  girl  who  composed  this  spiteful  mess ; 


32  City  Ballads. 

She  watched  me  pick  it  up,  made  a  half  rush 
Toward  me,  and  then  retreated  with  a  blush. 
I  called,  before  she  vanished  from  my  vision, 
"My  dear,  I  think  you've  lost  your  composition!" 
But  she  dodged  off,  as  if  she  seemed  to  doubt  it, 
And,  I  suppose,  went  on  to  school  without  it. 


Pacing  the  question  over,  far  and  near, 
I  think  the  little  maid  was  too  severe. 
Sweet  Charity  can  roof  much  sin,  they  tell, 
Why  shouldn't  it  shelter  foolishness  as  well? 
When  we  draw  rein  and  look  about  a  minute, 
We  see  no  field  but  God  is  somewhere  in  it ; 
He  made  the  eagle  and  the  lion,  I've  heard ; 
Why  not  the  monkey  and  the  chipping -bird  ? 


[From  Arthur  Selwyn's  Note  -  book.] 

Pavement  and  window  and  wall — 
What  is  the  cost  of  you  all? 
Parlor  and  boudoir  and  stair, 
Crowded  with  furniture  rare ; 
Gems  from  the  mountains  and  seas, 
Spires  that  out- measure  the  trees ; 
Chamber  and  palace  and  hall — 
What  is  the  price  of  you  all? 

[Voices.] 

What  did  we  cost?     Bend  ear; 
What  did  we  cost?    Now  hear. 

Several  millions  men, 
There  in  the  field  and  fen. 
Look!  they  are  stripped  and  grim, 
Sturdy  of  voice  and  limb. 


Wealth.  33 

Painfully,  now,  they  toil 

Into  the  sullen  soil ; 

Stabbing  the  hills  and  meads; 

Planting  the  silent  seeds. 

Into  each  streaming  face 

Glides  the  hot  sun  apace. 

You  in  the  thoughtful  guise, 

You  with  the  dreamy  eyes — 

Why  do  you  labor  so? 

Where  do  your  earnings  go?— 

"A  goodly  part  to  the  rulers  that  form  the  powers  that  be; 
A  modest  part,  if  lucky,  for  my  family  and  for  me" 
And  all  the  rest  for  the  splendors  that  fringe  the  river  and  sea" 

[  Voices.  ] 

What  did  we  cost?     Bend  ear; 
What  did  we  cost  ?     Now  hear. 

Listen!   the  factory  wall 

Sends  out  its  morning  call. 

Hear  the  machinery's  din; 

Look  at  the  folks  within. 

Child  with  a  poor,  pale  face ; 

Woman  with  hurried  grace ; 

Man  with  the  look  half  wise ; 

Girl  with  the  handsome  eyes. 

How  the  long  spindles  whirl ! 

How  the  rich  webs  unfurl ! 

Maid  with  the  orbs  that  quiver 

With  light  from  "  Over  the  River,"  * 

Why  are  you  toiling  so? 

Where  do  your  wages  go? — 

"A  goodly  part  to  the  owners,  whoever  they  may  be ; 
A  little  part  to  the  living  of  those  I  love  and  me  • 
And  all  the  rest  to  the  cities  that  gem  the  river  and  sea" 

*  As  is  well  known,  the  weird,  inimitable  poem,  "Over  the  River,"  was  written  by  a 
factory  girl. 

3 


34  City  Ballads. 

[Voices.] 

What  do  we  cost?     Now  hear: 
Hearken,  with  eye  and  ear. 

Several  thousand  men, 

There  in  the  hill  and  glen ; 

Forward,  inarch  !     Take  aim  ! 

Fire !  now  a  storm  of  flame ! 

Shriek  and  curse  and  shout; 

Death-beds  lying  about. 

Man  with  the  kingly  face, 

There  in  that  gory  place 

Bleeding  and  writhing  so 

(Well  a  moment  ago), 

Tell  me,  in  mangled  tones- 
Tell  us,  amid  your  groans, 

What  do  they  buy  with  war? 

What  were  you  fighting  for? — 

"For  country  and  for  glory,  and  for  the  powers  that  ~be 
To  deck  with  pride  and  honor  the  family  dear  to  me  • 
And  to  defend  our  cities  that  gem  the  river  and  sea" 

[Voices.] 

What  do  we  cost  ?     Bend  ear  : 
No ;  you  will  never  hear. 


[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

NOVEMBER  1,  18 — . 

Wind  north-east;  weather  getting  cross  and  cool; 

Wife  and  the  children  gone  to  Sunday-school. 

And  I — not  very  well — am  home  again, 

Holding  a  conversation  with  my  pen. 

And  all  that  I  can  make  it  say  to  me 

Is  Wealth,  wealth,  wealth !  how  much  I  hear  and  see ! 


Wealth.  35 

Strange,  how,  on  human  brains,  sixteen  times  o'er, 
Is  stamped  and  carved  the  magic  word  of  More ! 
Some  several  thousands  to  my  credit  lie 
In  a  small  bank  on  "Wall  Street,  handy  by ; 
But  I  can't  help  contriving  what  I'd  do 
If  I  possessed  the  whole  Sub-Treasury  too ; 
Or  if  I  had  (to  take  a  modest  tone) 
A  million  million  dollars,  all  my  own! 

The  subject  took  so  strong  a  growth  in  me, 

I  overtalked  the  same,  last  night,  at  tea;* 

And  so  my  oldest  daughter  (who  can  rhyme, 

And  strikes  some  notes  that  with  her  father's  chime) 

Became  with  that  same  foolishness  possessed, 

So  much  so  that  it  would  not  let  her  rest, 

But  hung  about  her  bedside  all  the  night 

And  brought  its  capabilities  in  sight. 

So  much  so  that  she  threw  it  into  verse 

As  bad  as  that  her  father  writes — or  worse. 

And  then,  with  some  unconscious  girlish  grace, 

And  blushes  chasing  all  about  her  face, 

She,  in  a  way  I've  learned  to  understand 

Quite  accident'Iy,  slipped  it  in  my  hand. 

It  was  not  made  in  public  to  appear, 

But,  privately,  I'll  paste  it  right  in  here : 


IF  I'D  A  MILLION  MILLIONS. 

If  I'd  a  million  millions — 
Just  think  !  a  million  millions  !— 
What  wouldn't  I  do — what  couldn't  I  do- 

If  I'd  a  million  millions? 
From  every  forest's  finest  tree 
My  many-gabled  house  should  be ; 
With  silver  threads  from  golden  looms 
Should  be  attired  my  palace -rooms ; 

*  Our  dinner  is  at  noon ;  our  supper,  six, 
We  have  not  yet  learned  all  the  city  tricks. 


36  City  Ballads. 

My  blossomed  table  have  the  best 
Of  all  the  East  and  all  the  West ; 
My  bed  should  be  a  daintier  thing 
Than  ever  sheltered  queen  or  king; 
What  wouldn't  I  do, 
What  couldn't  I  do, 
If  I'd  a  million  millions  ? 

If  I'd  a  million  millions — 
A  good,  square  million  millions — 
With  gratefulness  my  friends  should  bless 

Me  and  my  million  millions ! 
None  that  had  e'er  befriended  me 
But  he  a  millionaire  should  be; 
Who  kindly  words  of  me  had  told, 
Should  find  their  silver  turned  to  gold ; 
And  he  who  did  but  just  advance 
The  sunbeam  of  a  friendly  glance 
In  my  affliction's  cloudy  day 
Should  have  rich,  unexpected  pay. 
What  wouldn't  I  do, 
What  couldn't  I  do, 
If  I'd  a  million  millions  2 

If  I'd  a  million  millions — 
Just  think  !   a  million  millions ! — 
How  many  coals  on  hostile  souls 

I'd  heap  with  all  my  millions ! 
No  enemy  that  earned  my  hate 
Should  for  a  fiery  guerdon  wait ; 
With  roses  sweet  I'd  twine  him  o'er 
Until  the  thorns  should  prick  him  sore 
(How  much  of  credit  may  be  claimed 
For  sweetly  making  foes  ashamed 
I  do  not  know;  it  may  depend 
On  how  much  true  love  we  extend) ; 
But  love  outpoured 
I  could  afford, 
If  I'd  a  million  millions! 


Wealth.  37 

An  honest  million  millions — 

Just  think  !   a  million  millions ! 
The  poor  should  bless  the  strange  success 

That  gave  me  all  those  millions ! 
I'd  slaughter  every  hungry  wight 
Within  the  circle  of  my  sight, 
And  resurrect  him  with  such  food 
As  should  go  far  to  make  him  good ; 
~No  poor-house  but  must  bow  its  head 
And  gaze  at  cottage  walls  instead; 
And  hungry  paupers  soon  should  see 
A  year  of  genuine  jubilee. 

Nought  should  alloy 

Their  perfect  joy, 

That  could  be  saved  by  millions! 

Just  think !   a  million  millions  ! — 

The  care  of  all  those  millions ! 
And  after  all,  wrhat  would  befall 

A  life  with  all  those  millions  ? 
Would  not  the  lucre  clog  my  brain, 
And  make -me  hard  and  cold  and  vain? 
Might  not  my  treasure  win  my  heart, 
And  make  me  loath  with  it  to  part? 
How  could  I  tell,  by  mortal  sign, 
Betwixt  my  money's  friends  and  mine  ? 
And  then,  the  greed,  and  strife,  and  curse, 
The  world  brings  round  a  princely  purse: 

Perhaps  my  soul, 

Upon  the  wiiole, 

Is  best,  without  the  millions! 


[From  Arthur  Selwyris  Note-bookJ] 

'Now  comes  the  Christmas-tide: 
Love  wakes  on  every  side; 
Mirth  smiles  from  every  eye ; 
Wreaths  greet  the  passer-by. 


38  City  Ballads. 

Who,  full  of  haughty  pride, 
Loves  not  the  Christmas-tide? 
He  who,  with  av'rice  low, 
Cares  not  to  joy  bestow. 

God  save  the  wretch  denied 
Love  for  the  Christmas-tide! 
God  tell  his  hardened  heart 
Pure  joy  must  joy  impart! 

Who,  close  to  grief  allied, 
Grieves  'mid  the  Christmas-tide? 
She  who,  at  Sorrow's  call, 
Now  mourns  the  loss  of  all. 

God  save  the  dear  bereft — 
Teach  her  the  mercies  left! 
Show  her  that  clouds  may  yet 
Lift,  ere  her  sun  be  set! 


Who  lonely  must  abide 
All  through  the  Christmas-tide? 
He  who  has  never  known 
Love-passion  of  his  own. 

So  follows  he  his  fate, 
Friendly  but  desolate ; 
So — sad — his  heart  must  hide 
All  through  the  Christmas-tide! 


[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar."] 

DECEMBER  25,  18- 

Wind  in  the  north-east ;  snow  in  wagon-loads ; 
Good  sleighing  everywhere  on  all  the  roads. 
Family  healthy,  sensible,  and  pleasant, 
And  each  one  got  the  proper  Christmas  -  present. 


Wealth.  39 

(At  least  it  seems  so,  for  they  all  act  suited, 

And  Santa  Claus's  taste  hasn't  been  disputed.) 

Our  family  room  is  filled  with  tasty  mixings 

Of  evergreens  and  other  woman-fixings  ; 

The  open  grate  makes  things  look  rich  and  mellow, 

With  good  hard  coals  the  fire  has  painted  yellow;* 

Pictures  peep  from  the  walls,  with  thought  all  through  them, 

That  set  me  studying  every  time  I  view  them ; 

There's  certain  books  upon  the  centre-table 

That  say  what  I'd  have  said  if  I'd  been  able ; 

And,  measuring  up  this  room  with  honest  style, 

'Tisn't  a  bad  place  to  be  in  for  a  while. 

And  so  I  sit  here,  thinking,  musing,  dreaming, 
About  the  world  and  all  its  curious  scheming, 
And,  full  of  certainty-begotten  doubt, 
Wondering  what  this  life  is  all  about 
(From  all  that  I  can  learn  I'm  not  to  blame, 
For  wiser  men  have  often  done  the  same). 

We  went  a  mile  or  two,  last  night,  to  see 

The  decorations  on  a  Christmas  -  tree ; 

I  spied,  hung  on  that  sapling's   gilded  arms, 

Things  that  would  buy  a  couple  good-sized  farms; 

And  just  upon  our  way  home,  I  should  guess 

We  met  some  fifty  people,  more  or  less, 

Who  needed,  to  make  passable  their  days, 

A  decent  share  of  what  those  farms  would  raise. 

But  here's  the  question:  should  those  ill-to-do 
Deprive  rich  people  of  their  comforts  too  ? 
Because  there  are  some  people  lack  for  bread, 
Must  others'  minds  and  fancies  go  unfed? 
It's  quite  a  puzzle,  which  I  don't  know  whether 
My  clumsy  mind  knows  how  to  put  together; 


*  Although  to  me  it  doesn't  contain  the  charm. 
Of  our  old,  wide  log  fire-place  on  the  farm. 


40  City  Ballads. 

But  one  tiling's  sure :  wants  satisfied  wants  breed — 
The  more  folks  get,  the  more  they  seem  to  need. 
Then,  one  man  lives  on  what  would  starve  another, 
And  what  is  joy  for  you  might  kill  your  brother. 


JANUARY  5,  18—. 

Went  to  a  skating-rink  a  little  while, 

To  see  them  slide  in  the  new-fangled  style ; 

And,  strange  enough,  this  eve  a  letter  came 

From  a  friend — Abdiel  Stebbins  is  his  name — 

A  cousin  of  my  aunt,  Sophia  Dean ; 

A  wise  old  man,  but  clumsy  like,  and  green. 

He's  on  a  visit  in  a  neighboring  city, 

And  he  has  been  a-skating — more's  the  pity ! 

He  tells  it  in  a  manner  quite  sincere ; 

I  think  perhaps  I'll  paste  it  right  in  here : 


[FAEMER   STEBBINS   ON  ROLLERS.] 

ROCHESTER,  January  4. 

DEAK  COUSIN  JOHN: 

We  got  here  safe — my  worthy  wife  an'  me — 
An'  put  up  at  James  Sunnyhopes' — a  pleasant  place  to  be ; 
An'  Isabel,  his  oldest  girl,  is  home  from  school  just  now, 
An'  pets  me  with  her  manners  all  her  young  man  will  allow; 
An'  his  good  wife  has  monstrous  sweet  an'  culinary  ways : 
It  is  a  summery  place  to  pass  a  few  cold  winter  days. 

Besides,  I've  various  cast-iron  friends  in  different  parts  o'  town, 
That's  always  glad  to  have  me  call  whenever  I  come  down ; 
But  t'other  day,  when  'mongst  the  same  I  undertook  to  roam, 
I  could  not  find  a  single  one  that  seemed  to  be  to  home ! 
An'  when  I  asked  their  whereabouts,  the  answer  was,  "I  think, 
If  you're  a-goin'  down  that  way,  you'll  find  'em  at  the  Rink/' 

I  asked  what  night  the  Lyceum  folks  would  hold  their  next  debate — 
(I've  sometimes  gone  an'  helped  'em  wield  the  cares  of  Church  an'  State), 


Wealth.  4I 

An'  if  protracted  meetin's  now  was  holdin'  anywhere 

(I  like  to  get  my  soul  fed  up  with  fresh  celestial  fare); 

Or  when  the  next  church  social  was;  they'd  give  a  knowin'  wink, 

An'  say,  "I  b'lieve  there's  nothin'  now  transpirin'  but  the  Kink." 

"  What  is  this  '  Rink  ?' "  I  innocent  inquired,  that  night  at  tea, 
"  Oh,  you  must  go,"  said  Isabel,  "  this  very  night  with  me ! 
And  Mrs.  Stebbins  she  must  go,  an'  skate  there  with  us,  too!" 
My  wife  replied,  "My  dear,  just  please  inform  me  when  I  do. 
But  you  two  go."     An'  so  we  went,  an'  saw  a  circus  there, 
With  which  few  sights  I've  ever  struck  will  anyways  compare. 

It  seems  a  good-sized  meetm'-house  had  given  up  its  pews 

(The  church  an'  pastor  had  resigned,  from  spiritual  blues), 

An'  several  acres  of  the  floor  was  made  a  skatin'  ground, 

Where  folks  of  every  shape  an'  size  went  skippin'  round  an'  round  ; 

An'  in  the  midst  a  big  brass  band  was  helpin'  on  the  fun, 

An'  everything  was  gay  as  sixteen  weddin's  joined  in  one. 

I've  seen  small  insects   crazy-like  go  circlin'  through  the  air, 

An'  wondered  if  they  thought  some  time  they'd  maybe  get  somewhere ; 

I've  seen  a  million  river-bugs  go  scootin'  round  an'  round, 

An'  wondered  what  'twas  all  about,  or  what  they'd  lost  or  found  ; 

But  men  an'  women,  boys  an'  girls,  upon  a  hard-wood  floor, 

All  whirlin'  round  like  folks  possessed,  I  never  saw  before. 

An'  then  it  straight  came  back  to  me,  the  things  I'd  read  an'  heard 

About  the  rinks,  an'  how  their  ways  was  wicked  an'  absurd ; 

I'd  learned  somewhere  that  skatin'  wasn't  a  healthy  thing  to  do — 

But  there  was  Doctor  Saddlebags — his  fam'ly  with  him,  too ! 

I'd  heard  that  'twasn't  a  proper  place  for  Christian  folks  to  seek — 

Old  Deacon  Perseverance  Jinks  flew  past  me  like  a  streak ! 

Then  Sister  Is'bel  Sunnyhopes  put  on  a  pair  o'  skates, 
An'  started  off  as  if  she'd  run  through  several  different  States. 
My  goodness !  how  that  gal  showed  up !     I  never  did  opine 
That  she  could  twist  herself  to  look  so  charmiir   an'  so  fine; 
And  then  a  fellow  that  she  knew  took  hold  o'  hands  with  her, 
A  sort  o'  double  crossways  like,  an'  helped  her,  as  it  were. 


42  City  Ballads. 

I  used  to  skate ;  an'  'twas  a  sport  of  which  I  once  was  fond. 

Why,  I  could  write  my  autograph  on  Tompkins'  saw-mill  pond. 

Of  course  to  slip  on  runners,  that  is  one  thing,  one  may  say, 

An'  movin'  round  on  casters  is  a  somewhat  different  way ; 

But  when  the  fun  that  fellow  had  came  flashin'  to  my  eye, 

I  says,  "  I'm  young  again ;  by  George,  I'll  skate  once  more  or  die !" 

A  little  boy  a  pair  o'  skates  to  fit  my  boots  soon  found — 

He  had  to  put  'em  on  for  me  (I  weigh  three  hundred  pound); 

An'  then  I  straightened  up  an'  says,  "Look  here,  you  younger  chaps, 

You  think  you're  runnin'  some'at  past  us  older  heads,  perhaps. 

If  this  young  lady  here  to  me  will  trust  awhile  her  fate, 

I'll  go  around  a  dozen  times  an'  show  you  how  to  skate." 

She  was  a  niceish,  plump  young  gal,  I'd  noticed  quite  a  while, 

An'  she  reached  out  her  hands  with  'most  too  daughterly  a  smile ; 

But  off  we  pushed  with  might  an'  main ;  when  all  to  once  the  wheels 

Departed  suddenly  above,  an'  took  along  my  heels ; 

My  head  assailed  the  floor   as  if  'twas  tryin'  to  get  through, 

An'  all  the  stars  I  ever  saw  arrived  at  once  in  view. 

'Twas  sing'lar  (as  not  quite  unlike  a  saw-log  there  I  lay) 
How  many  of  the  other  folks  was  goin'  that  same  wray; 
They  stumbled  over  me  in  one  large  animated  heap, 
An'  formed  a  pile  o'  legs  an'  arms  not  far  from  ten  foot  deep; 
But  after  they  had  all  climbed  off,  in  rather  fierce  surprise, 
I  lay  there  like  a  saw-log  still — considerin'  how  to  rise. 

Then,  dignified  I  rose,  with  hands  upon  my  ample  waist, 
An'  then  sat  down  again  with  large  and  very  painful  haste; 
An'  rose  again,  and  started  off  to  find  a  place  to  rest, 
Then  on  my  gentle  stomach  stood,  an'  tore  my  meetin'  vest ; 
When  Sister  Sunnyhopes  slid  up  as  trim  as  trim  could  be, 
An'  she  an'  her  young  fellow  took  compassionate  charge  o'  me. 

Then  after  I'd  got  off  the  skates  an'  flung  'em  out  o'  reach, 
I  rose,  while  all  grew  hushed  an'  still,  an'  made  the  followin'  speech : 
"My  friends,  I've  struck  a  small  idea  (an'  struck  it  pretty  square), 
'Which  physic'ly  an'  morally  will  some  attention  bear: 


"  .    .    .    .    WHEN    ALL    TO    ONCE    THK    WHEELS 
DKPAHTKD   SUDDENLY    ABOVE,  AN1    TOOK   ALONG   MY   HEELS." 


Wealth. 

Those  who  their  balance  can  preserve  are  safe  here  any  day, 
An'  those  who  can't,  I  rather  think,  had  better  keep  away." 


45 


Then  I  limped  out  with  very  strong  unprecedented  pains, 

An'  hired  a  horse  at  liberal  rates  to  draw  home  my  remains ; 

An'  lay  abed  three  days,  while  wife  laughed  at  an'  nursed  me  well, 

An'  used  up  all  the  arnica  two  drug-stores  had  to  sell ; 

An'  when  Miss  Is'bel  Sunnyhopes  said,  "  Won't  you  skate  some  more  ?" 

I  answered,  "Not  while  I  remain  on  this  terrestrial  shore." 


FARMER   STEBBINS   ON   ROLLERS. 


WANT. 

[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

FEBRUARY  5,  18 — . 

WANT — want — want — want !     O  God !  forgive  the  crime, 

If  I,  asleep,  awake,  at  any  time, 

Upon  my  bended  knees,  my  back,  my  feet, 

In  church,  on  bed,  on  treasure-lighted  street, 

Have  ever  hinted,  or,  much  less,  have  pleaded 

That  I  hadn't  ten  times  over  all  I  needed! 

Lord  save  my  soul!     I  never  knew  the  way 

That  people  starve  along  from  day  to  day ; 

May  gracious  Heaven  forgive  me,  o'er  and  o'er, 

That  I  have  never  found  these  folks  before! 

Of  course   some  news  of  it  has  come  my  way, 

Like  a  faint  echo  on  a  drowsy  day ; 

At  home  I  "gave,"  whene'er  by  suffering  grieved, 

And  called  it  "  Charity,"  and  felt  relieved ; 

And  thought  that  I  wras  never  undertasked, 

If  I  bestowed  when  with  due  deference  asked. 

But  no  one  finds  the  poorest  poor,  I  doubt, 

Unless  he  goes  himself  and  hunts  them  out ; 

And  when  you  get  real  suffering  among, 

Be  thankful  if  your  heart-strings  are  not  wrung! 

These  thoughts  sobbed  through  me  this  cold,  snowy  day, 
As  carefully  I  picked  a  dubious  way 
'Mongst  nakedness  and  want  on  every  side, 
And  a  rough,  masculine  angel  for  my  guide, 


Want. 

Who  goes  about  among  affliction's  heirs, 

And  gives  his  life  to  piece  out  some  of  theirs. 

Up — up — up — up  !  and  yet,  I  am  afraid, 

Farther  from  Heaven  at  every  step  we  made ! 

Gaunt,  hungry  creatures  stood  on  every  side 

With  cheeks  drawn  close  and  sad  eyes  opened  wide, 

Filled  to  the  brim  with  greedy,  starving  prayers, 

As  we  went  past  them  up  the  creaking  stairs. 

And  I  peeped  into  rooms  'twas  death  to  see 

(Or,  rather,  they  peeped  darkly  out  at  me)— 

Such  as  I  wouldn't  have  had  the  cheek  to  've  shown 

To  any  swine  I've  ever  chanced  to  own. 

'Twas  sad  to  see,  in  this  great  misery- cup, 

How  guilt  and  innocence  were  all  mixed  up : 

Here  lay  a  fellow,  stupid,  dull,  and  dumb, 

Whose  breath  was  like  a  broken  keg  of  rum ; 

And  there  a  baby,  looking  scared  and  odd, 

Who  had  not  been  a  week  away  from  God. 

Here  a  clean  woman,  toiling  for  her  bread ; 

And  there  a  wretch  whose  dirty  heart  was  dead. 

Here  a  sound  rascal,  lazy,  loud,  and  bold ; 

And  there  the  helpless,  weak  and  sick  and  old. 

Want — want !     O  Lord !  forgive  me,  o'er  and  o'er, 

That  I  haven't  found  these  suffering  folks  before ! 

We  had  a  decent  poor-house  in  our  town, 

And  I  would  often  drive  my  spare  horse  down, 

And  take  a  little  stroll  among  them  there, 

And  try  to  cheer  their  every- day  despair, 

And  with  their  little  wants  and  worries  join, 

And  chink  round  'mongst  them  with  small  bits  of  coin 

(Done  up  in  good  advice,  somewhat  severe), 

And  send  them  Christmas  turkeys  every  year; 

Then,  in  my  cosy  home,  think,  with  a  grin, 

What  a  fine,  liberal  angel  I  had  been. 

But  here,  O  heavens!  I  find  them,  high  and  low, 

Hundreds  of  pauper-houses  in  a  row! 


47 


48  City  Ballads. 

And  suffering — suffering — in  a  shape,  I  vow, 
That  makes  my  poor  old  tears  run  even  now! 

For  city  trouble,  any  one  will  find, 
Is  more  ingenious  than  the  country  kind, 
And  has  a  thousand  cute -in  vented  ways 
To  torture   men  and  shorten  off  their  days. 
And  while  we  wonder  that  God  made  it  so, 
He  doesn't  seem  very  anxious  we  should  know; 
But  He  is  willing  we  should  search  His  plan, 
And  pry  around  and  find  out  all  we   can ; 
And  I  suspect,  when  pains  and  troubles  fall, 
That  every  one  is  useful,  after  all. 

At  any  rate,  the  miseries  that  I  see 

Are  useful  in  their  good  effects  on  me ; 

And  though  that  isn't  a  great  thing,  on  the  whole 

(Though  Heaven  does  put  a  premium  on  each  soul)? 

Yet  there  are  several  people,  I  suspect, 

Who  need  a  little  of  that  same  effect; 

And  if  they  do  not  get  it,  old  and  young, 

'Twill  be  because  I've  lost  my  poor  old  tongue. 

One  more  small  portion  of  God's  plan  I  see 
Concerning  its  effect  on  "  even  me :" 
And  that's  its  leading  me,  by  methods  queer, 
To  be  some  help  to  these  poor  people  here. 
For  now  I  promise,  from  this  very  night, 
And  hereby  put  it  down  in  black  and  white, 
That  out  of  every  day  that's  given  me  yet, 
And  out  of  every  dollar  I  can  get, 
And  out  of  every  talent,  small  or  large, 
That  God  sees  fit  to  put  into  rriy  charge, 
A  part  shall  be  devoted — square  and  sure— 
To  God's  own  suffering,  struggling,  dying  poor ! 


Want. 


[From  Arthur  Selwyrfs  Note-book.] 

Poverty,  why  wast  thou  born 
In  the  world's  earliest  morn? 
"Why  hast  thou  lived  all  the  years, 
Sowing  thy  pains  and  thy  tears? 
Roaming  about  thou  art  seen, 
Crooked,  decrepit,  and  lean ; 
Travelling  all  the  world  through- 
Suffering's  "wandering  Jew." 
Thin  and  unkempt  is  thy  hair, 
Fleshless  as  parchment  thy  cheek, 
Sad  and  ungainly  thine  air, 
Hollow  the  words  thou  dost  speak ; 
Bony  and  grasping  thy  hand, 
Dreary  thy  days  in  the  land. 
Poverty,  why  wast  thou  born 
Under  the  world's  quiet  scorn '( 


49 


Poverty,  thou  hast  been  seen 
Clad  in  a  comelier  mien. 
Oft,  to  the  clear -seeing  eyes, 
Thou  art  a  saint  in  disguise. 
Discipline  rich  thou  hast  brought, 
Lessons  of  labor  and  thought. 
Oft,  in  thy  dreariest  night, 
Virtue  gleams  sturdy  and  bright ; 
Oft,  from  thy  scantiest  hour, 
Grow  the  beginnings  of  power; 
Oft,  Amongst  thy  squalors  and  needs, 
Live  such  magnificent  deeds 
As  the  proud  angels  will  crown 
There  in  their  gold-streeted  town; 
Oft,  from  thy  high  garrets,  throng 
Notes  of  magnificent  song, 


50  City  Ballads. 

That,  from  sad  day  imto  day, 
Float  through  the  ages  away. 
Poverty — brave  or  forlorn — 
God  knoweth  why  thou  wast  born. 


\From  Farmer  Harrington  s  Calendar."] 

FEBRUARY  12,  18—. 

Wind  in  the  South;  a  fresh,  sweet,  winter  day; 
'T would  have  been  sad  to  see  it  go  away, 
If  'twere  not  that  the  sunset's  signal-lights 
Glimmered  awhile  across  the  Jersey  heights, 
Then,  lightly  dancing  o'er  the  river,  came 
And  set  some  New  York  windows  all  aflame. 
(From  a  clear  sunset  I  can  always  borrow 
God's  sweet  half  promise  of  a  fair  to-morrow.) 

But,  while  I  gazed  upon  that  splendid  sight, 
My  mind  would  take  a  heavy,  care -winged  flight 
Up  to  a  small  back  garret,  far  away, 
"Where  I  had  stood  at  two  o'clock  to-day. 

Want — want — want — want !  it  hung  'round  everywhere  ; 

It  threw  its  odors   on  the  sickly  air! 

The  room  was  somewhat  smaller,  to  begin, 

Than  I  would  put  a  span  of  horses  in; 

The  floor  was  rough  and  damp  as  floor  could  be; 

No  picture  on  the  walls  but  Poverty ; 

The  bed  was  ragged,  scanty,  hard,  and  drear ; 

A  rough-made,  empty  crib  was  standing  near; 

The  "window"  'd  never  felt  the  sun's  warm  stare, 

Or  breathed  a  breath  of  good  old-fashioned  air; 

A  little,  worn-out  doll  some  child  had  had, 
Looking,  like  its  surroundings,  rough  and  sad, 


YES,  IT'S    STRAIGHT    AND   TRUE,   GOOD    PREACHER,   EVERY   WORD    THAT   YOU    HAVE    SAID." 


Want.  53 

And  dressed  in  rags  and  pinched  and  famine-faced, 
But  bearing  still  some  marks  of  girlish  taste; 
A  gaunt,  gray  kitten,  showing  every  sign 
That  it  was  on  the  last  life  of  its  nine, 
Though  trying  hard  to  feel  quite  sleek  and  fat, 
And  not  a  very  care-worn,  desolate  cat ; 
A  man,  so  grieved  my  heart  can  see  him  now, 
With  frightful  sorrow  printed  on  his  brow; 

A  rough,  wood  coffin  stood  there  near  the  bed, 

Looking  uneasy  even  for  the  dead; 

A  little,  pallid  face  I  saw  therein — 

A  niceish-looking  child  she  must  have  been, 

As  sweet  as  ever  need  to  feed  a  glance, 

If  she  had  only  had  one -half  a  chance. 

But  still,  she  woke  a  thought  I  could  not  smother— 

"  That  child  was  murdered  in  some  \vay  or  other."  * 

And  my  opinion  didn't  seem  much  amiss 

When  the  man  spoke  up,  something  like  to  this : 


[THAT   SWAMP  OF  DEATH.] 

Yes,  it's   straight  and  true,  good  Preacher,  every  word  that  you  have 

said ; 

Do  not  think  these  tears  unmanly — they're  the  first  ones  I  have  shed ! 
But  they  kind  o'  beat  and  pounded  'gainst  my  aching  heart  and  brain, 
And  they  wTould  not  be  let  go  of,  and  they  gave  me  extra  pain. 

I  am  just  a  laboring  man,  sir — work  for  food  and  rags  and  sleep, 
And  I  hardly  know  the  meaning  of  the  life  I  slave  to  keep ; 
But  I  know  when  times  are  cheery,  or  my  heart  is  made  of  lead; 
I  know  sorrow  when  I  see  it,  and — I  know  my  girl  is  dead ! 


All  this,  above  the  shoulder,  I  could  see, 

Of  an  old  preacher  who  had  come  with  me — 

A  man  who,  'mongst  those  garrets,  earns,  they  say, 

A  house  and  lot  in  heaven  every  day. 


54 


City  Ballads. 


No,  she  isn't  much  to  look  at — just  a  plainish  bit  of  clay, 
Of  the  sort  of  perished  children  that  die  'round  here  every  day ; 
And  how  she  could  break  a  heart  up  you'd  be  slow  to  understand, 
But  she  held  mine,  Mr.  Preacher,  in  that  little  withered  hand! 

There  are  lots  of  prettier  children,  with  a  face  and  form  more  fine — 
Let  their  parents  love  and  pet  them — but  this  little  one  was  mine ! 
There  was  no  one  else  to  cling  to  when  we  two  were  torn  apart, 
And  it's  death — this  amputation  of  the  strong  arms  of  the  heart ! 

I  am  just  an  ignorant  man,  sir,  of  the  kind  that  digs  and  delves, 
But  I've  learned  that  human  beings  cannot  stay  in  by  themselves ; 
They  will  reach  out  after  something,  be  it  good  or  be  it  bad, 
And  my  heart  on  hers  had  settled,  and — the  girl  was  all  I  had ! 


Yes,  it's  solid,  Mr.  Preacher,  every  word 

that  you  have  said — 
God  loves  children  while  they're  living, 

and  adopts  them  when  they're  dead ; 


' CHOKED  AND  STRANGLED  BY  THE  FOUL  BREATH  OF  THE  CHIMNEYS  OVER  THERE." 


But  I  cannot  help  contriving,  do  the  very  best  I  can, 

That  it  wasn't  God's  mercy  took  her,  but  the  selfishness  of  man ! 


Want. 


55 


Why,  she  lay  here,  faint  and  gasping,  moaning  for  a  bit  of  air, 
Choked  and  strangled  by  the  foul  breath  of  the  chimneys  over  there ; 
It  climbed  through  every  window,  and  crept  under  every  door, 
And  I  tried  to  bar  against  it,  and  she  only  choked  the  more. 


"Oil,   THE    AIR    IS    PURE    AND    WHOLESOME    WHERE   SOME    BABIES    COO    AND    RKST, 

AND    THEY    TRIM    THEM    OUT   WITH    RIBBONS,    AND    THEY   FEED   THEM    WITH   THE    BEST. 


She  would  lie  there,  with  the  old  look  that  poor  children  somehow  get  ;- 
She  had  learned  to  use  her  patience,  and  she  did  not  cry  or  fret, 
But  would  lift  her  little  face  up,  so  piteous  and  so  fair, 
And  would  whisper,  "/  am  dying  for  a  little  breath  of  air!" 


56  City  Ballads. 

If  she'd  gone  off  through  the  sunlight,  't wouldn't  have  seemed  so  hard 

to  me, 

Or  among  the  fresh  cool  breezes  that  come  sweeping  from  the  sea ; 
But  it's  nothing  less  than  murder  when  my  darling's  every  breath          , 
Chokes  and  strangles  with  the  poison  from  that  chimney  swamp  of  death ! 

Oh,  it's  not  enough  those  people  own  the  very  ground  we  tread, 
And  the  shelter  that  we  crouch  in,  and  the  tools  that  earn  our  bread ; 
They  must  place  their  blotted  mortgage  on  the  air  and  on  the  sky, 
And  shut  out  our  little  heaven,  till  our  children  pine  and  die ! 

Oh,  the  air  is  pure  and  wholesome  where  some  babies  coo  and  rest, 
And  they  trim  them  out  with  ribbons,  and  they  feed  them  with  the  best ; 
But  the  love  they  bear  is  mockery  to  the  gracious  God  on  high, 
If  to  give  those  children  luxuries  some  one  else's  child  must  die ! 

Oh,  we  wear  the  cheapest  clothing,  and  our  meals  are  scant  and  brief, 
And  perhaps  those  fellows  fancy  there's  a  cheaper  grade  of  grief; 
But  the  people  all  around  here,  losing  children,  friends,  and  mates, 
Can  inform  them  that  Affliction  hasn't  any  under-rates. 

I'm  no  grumbler  at  the  rulers  of  "  this  free  and  happy  land," 
And  I  don't  go  'round  explaining  things  I  do  not  understand; 
But  I  know  there's  something  treacherous  in  the  working  of  the  law, 
When  we  get  a  dose  of  poison  out  of  every  breath  we  draw. 

I  have  talked  too  much,  good  Preacher,  and  I  hope  you  won't  be  vexed, 
But  Pm  going  to  make  a  sermon  with  that  white  face  for  a  text ; 
And  I'll  preach  it,  and  I'll  preach  it,  till  I  set  the  people  wild 
O'er  the  heartless,  reckless  grasping  of  the  men  who  killed  my  child ! 


[From  Arthur  Selwyrfs  Note-book] 

Still  do  I  write — day-time  and  night — 
That  which  I  see  in  my  leisurely  flight. 
What  is  this  sign  that  is  claiming  the  sight  ? — • 
"  Lodgings  within  here,  at  live  cents  per  night ! 


Want.  5  7 

Let  me  examine  this  cheap-entered  nest, 
Pay  my  five  cents,  and  go  in  with  the  rest ; 
Let  me  jot  down  with  sly  pen,  but  sincere, 
What,  in  this  garret,  I  see,  smell,  and  hear. 
Great,  gloomy  den !  where,  on  close-clustered  shelves, 
Shelterless  wretches  can  shelter  themselves ; 
Pestilence-drugged  is  the  murderous  air, 
Full  of  the  breathings  of  want  and  despair! 

Horrible  place ! — where  The  Crushed  Race 
Winces  'neath  Poverty's  dolefullest  blight — 

Bivouac  of  suffering,  sin,  arid  disgrace : 
What  can  you  look  for,  at  five  cents  per  night? 


Hustle  them  in,  jostle  them  in, 
Many  of  nation,  and  divers  of  kin  ; 
Sallow,  and  yellow,  and  tawny  of  skin- 
Hustle  them,  bustle  them,  jostle  them  in  ! 
Handfuls  of  withered  but  suffering  clay, 

O  i/  / 

Swept  from  the  East  by  oppression  away ; 
Baffled  adventurers,  conquered  and  pressed 
Back  from  the  gates  of  the  glittering  West ; 
Men  who  with  indolence,  folly,  and  guile 
Carelessly  slighted  Prosperity's  smile ; 
Men  who  have  struggled  'gainst  Destiny's  frown, 
Inch  after  inch,  till  she  hunted  them  down. 

Scores  in  a  tier — pile  them  up  here — 
Many  of  peoples  and  divers  of  kin  ; 

Drift  of  the  nations,  from  far  and  from 
Hustle  them,  bustle  them,  jostle  them  in ! 


Islands  of  green,  mistily  seen, 
Hover  in  visions  these  sleepers  between; 
Beautiful  memories,  cozy  and  clean, 
Eestfully  precious,  and  sweetly  serene. 


58  City  Ballads, 

Womanly  kisses  have  softened  the  brow 
Lying  in  drunken  bewilderment  now ; 
Infantile  faces  have  cuddled  for  rest 
Here  on  this  savage  and  rag-covered  breast. 
Lucky  the  wretch  who,  in  Poverty's  ways, 
Bears  not  the  burden  of  "happier  days;" 
Many  a  midnight  is  gloomier  yet 
.By  the  remembrance  of  stars  that  have  set! 

Echoes  of  pain,  drearily  plain, 
Come  of  old  melodies  sweet  and  serene; 

Images  sad  to  the  heart  and  the  brain 
Rise  out  of  memories  cozy  and  green. 


Hustle  them  in,  bustle  them  in, 
Fetid  with  squalor,  and  reeking  with  gin, 
Loaded  with  misery,  folly,  and  sin — 
Hustle  them,  bustle  them,  jostle  them  in ! 
Few  are  the  sorrows  so  hopelessly  drear 
But  they  have  sad  representatives  here ; 
Never  a  crime  so  complete  and  confessed 
But  has  come  hither  for  one  night  of  rest. 
Seeds  that  the  thorns  of  diseases  may  bear 
Float  on  the  putrid  and  smoke-laden  air; 
Ghosts  of  destruction  are  haunting  each  breath- 
Soft-stepping  agents,  commissioned  by  Death. 

Crowd  them  in  rows,  comrades  or  foes, 
Deadened  with  liquor  and  deafened  with  din, 

Fugitives  out  of  the  frosts  and  the  snows, 
Hustle  them,  bustle  them,  jostle  them  in! 


Guilt  has  not  pressed  unto  its  breast 
All  who  are  taking  this  dingy  unrest: 
Innocence  often  is  Misery's  guest ; 
Sorrow  may  strike  at  the  brightest  and  best. 


"WEARY  OLD  MAN  WITH  THE  SNOW-DRIFTED  HAIR, 
NOT  BY  YOUR  FAULT  ARE  YOU  SUFFERING  THfiRE.' 


Want.  6 1 

You  from  whom  hope,  but  not  feeling,  has  fled, 
This  is  your  refuge  from  pauperhood's  bed ; 
Timorous  lad  with  a  sensitive  face, 
You  have  no  record  of  crime  and  disgrace  ; 
Weary  old  man  with  the  snow-drifted  hair, 
Not  by  your  fault  are  you  suffering  there, 
Never  a  child  of  your  cherishing  nigh — 
'Tis  not  for  sin  you  so  drearily  die. 

Pain,  in  all  lands,  smites  with  two  hands — 
Guilty  and  good  may  encounter  the  test ; 

Misery's  cord  is  of  different  strands ; 
Sorrow  may  strike  at  the  brightest  and  best. 


Sympathy's  tear,  warm  and  sincere, 

Cannot  but  glisten  while  lingering  near. 

Edge  not  away,  sir,  in  horror  of  fear, 

These  are  your  brothers — this  family  here ! 

What  if  Misfortune  had  made  you  forlorn 

With  her  stiletto  as  well  as  her  scorn? 

What  if  some  fiend  had  been  making  you  sure 

With  more  temptation  than  flesh  could  endure? 

What  if  you  deep  in  the  slums  had  been  born, 

Cradled  in  villany,  christened  in  scorn? 

What  if  your  toys  had  been  tainted  with  crime? 

What  if  your  baby  hands  dabbled  in  slime? 

Judge  them  with  ruth.     Maybe,  in  truth, 
It  is  not  they,  but  their  luck,  that  is  here. 

Fancy  your  growth  from  a  sin-nurtured  youth ; 
Pity  their  weakness,  and  give  them  a  tear. 


Help  them  get  out ;  help  them  keep  out ! 
Labor  to  teach  them  what  life  is  about ; 
Give  them  a  hand  unencumbered  with  doubt ; 
Feed  them  and  clothe  them,  but  pilot  them  out ! 


62  City  Ballads. 

Mortals  depraved,  whatsoe'er  they  have  been, 

Soonest  can  mend  from  assistance  within. 

Warm  them  and  feed  them— they're  beasts,  even  then ; 

Teach  them  and  love  them— they  grow  into  men. 

You  who  'mid  luxuries  costly  and  grand 

Decorate  homes  with  munificent  hand, 

Use,  in  some  measure,  your  exquisite  arts 

For  the  improvement  of  minds  and  of  hearts. 

Lilies  must  grow  up  from  below, 
Where  the  strong  rootlets  are  twining  about; 

Goodness  and  honesty  ever  must  flow 
From  the  heart-centres — to  blossom  without. 


[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar. ,] 

FEBRUARY  28,  18—. 

Wind  in  the  west ;  no  symptoms  of  a  thaw ; 
The  coldest,  bleakest  day  I  ever  saw. 
And  I'm  housed  up,  with  nothing  much  to  do 
Except  to  read  the  papers  through  and  through. 

"  Died  of  starvation  !" — what  does  this  all  mean  ? 
Stores  of  provisions  everywhere  are  seen. 
"  Died  of  starvation !" — here's  the  place  and  name 
Eight  in  the  paper ;  let  us  blush  for  shame ! 

This  city  wastes  what  any  one  would  call 
Nine  hundred  times  enough  to  feed  us  all; 
And  yet  folks  die  in  garret,  hut,  and  street, 
Simply  because  there  isn't  enough  to  eat ! 

Oh,  heavens !  there  runs  a  great  big  Norway  rat, 
Sleek  as  a  banker,  and  almost  as  fat ; 
He  daily  breakfasts,  dines,  and  sups,  and  thrives 
On  what  would  save  a  pair  of  human  lives ; 


Want.  63 

He  rears  a  family  with  his  own  fat  features, 
On  food  wre  lock  up  from  our  fellow-creatures ; 
And  human  beings  fall  down  by  the  wray, 
And  die  for  want  of  food,  this  very  day! 

"Frozen  to  death!" — the  worse  than  useless  moth 
May  feed,  this  year,  on  bales  and  bales  of  cloth ; 
Untouched,  ten  million  tons  of  coal  can  lie, 
While  God's  own  human  beings  freeze  and  die ! 

"  Died  of  starvation  !" — waves  of  golden  wheat 
All  summer  dashed  and  glistened  at  our  feet ; 
Dull,  senseless  grain  is  stored  in  buildings  high, 
And  God's  own  human  beings  starve  and  die  ! 

I  wrould  not  rob  from  rich  men  what  they  earn, 
But  I  would  have  them  sweet  compassion  learn ; 
Oh,  do  not  Pity's  gentle  voice  defy, 
While  God's  own  human  beings  starve  and  die ! 


MARCH  5,  18 — , 

Died  of  starvation! — yes,  it  has  been  done; 
To-day  I've  seen  a  hunger- murdered  one, 
Who  had  a  perfect  right,  it  seemed  to  me, 
The  mistress  of  a  happy  home  to  be ; 
And  yet  we  found  her  on  a  ragged  bed, 
One  white  arm  underneath  a  shapely  head ; 
Her  long,  bright  hair  was  lying,  fold  on  fold, 
Like  finest  threads  spun  from  a  bar  of  gold ; 
Her  face  wTas  chiselled  after  beauty's  style, 
And  want  had  not  hewn  out  its  witching  smile ; 
'Twas  like  white  marble  half  endowed  with  breath- 
The  face  of  this  sweet  maiden — starved  to  death! 

Not  far  from  where  she  lay,  so  sadly  lone, 
Her  calendar,  or  "  diary,"  was  thrown ; 
They  let  me  have  it  when  the  law  had  read 
This  plaintive,  girlish  message  from  the  dead. 


64  City  Ballads. 

It  doesn't  look  well  among  these  notes  to  stay, 
Of  one  who  feeds  on  blessings  every  day ; 
But  I  will  put  it  in  here,  for  my  heart 
To  look  at  when  I  feel  too  proud  and  smart! 


A  SEWING -GIRL'S  DIARY. 

FEBRUARY  1,  18 — . 

Here — am  I  here  ? 

Or  is  it  fancy,  born   of  fear? 

Yes — O  God,  save  me  ! — this  is  I, 

And  not  some  wretch  of  whom  I've  read? 

In  that  bright  girlhood,  when  the  sky 

Each  night  strewed  star-dust  o'er  my  head ; 

When  each  morn  meant  a  gala-day, 

And  all  my  little  world  was  gay. 

I  had  not  felt  the  touch  of  Care ; 

I'd  heard  of  something  called  Despair, 

But  knew  it  only  by  its  name. 

(How  far  it  seemed ! — how  soon  it  came !) 

Yes,  all  the  bright  years  hurried  by ; 

Sorrow  was  near,  and — this  is  I ! 

Is't  the  same  girl  that  stood,  one  night, 
There  in  the  wide  hall's  thrilling  light, 
With  all  the  costly  robes  astir 
That  love  and  pride  had  bought  for  her? 
How  the  great  crowd,  'mid  their  kind  din, 
Gazed  with  gaunt  eyes  and  drank  me  in ! 
And  then  they  hushed  at  each  low  word, 
So  Death  himself  might  have  been  heard, 
To  hear  me  mournfully  rehearse 
The  tender  Hood's  pathetic  verse 
About  the  woman  who,  half  dead, 
Stitched  her  frail  life  in  every  thread. 
How  little  then  I  knew  the  need! 
Yet  for  my  own  sex  I  did  plead, 
And  my  heart  crept  on  each  wrord's  track 
Till  soft  sobs  from  the  crowd  came  back. 


'1ST    THE    SAME    GIRL    THAT    STOOD,   ONE    NIGHT, 
THERE    IN    THE    WIDE   HALL'S   THRILLING   LIGHT  ?' 


Want.  67 


I  saw  my  sister,  streaming -eyed, 
Yet  bearing  still  a  face  of  pride : 
Oh,  sister!  when  you  looked  at  me 
With  that  quick  yearning  glance   of  love, 
Did  you  peer  on,  to  what  might  be— 
What  is? — and  is  it  known  above? 
When  that  great  throng  a  shout  did  raise- 
And  gave   me  words  of  heart -felt  praise, 
And  loving  eyes  their  incense  burned 
Till  my  young  girlish  head  was  turned — 
Did  your  clear  eye   see  farther  then 
A  moment  past  all  mortal  ken, 
And  in  the  dreary  scene  I  drew 
Did  my  own  form  appear  to  you  ? 
It  might  have  been;  grief  w~as  o'er-nigh, 
And — God,  have  pity! — this  is  I, 
Treading  a  steep  and  dang'rous  way, 
And — earning  twenty  cents  a  day ! 


FEBRUARY  5,  18 — „ 

Father,  this  is  the  time  we  hailed 
As  your  bright  birthday.     We  ne'er  failed 
To  throng  about  with  love's  fond  arts, 
And  bring  you  presents  from  our  hearts ; 
Your  pleasure  filled  our  day  with  bliss ; 
Oh  what  a  different  one  from  this ! 
My  love,  my  father!   how  you  stood 
'Twixt  me  and  all  that  was  not  good! 
How,  each  o'er-hurried  breath  I  drew, 
My  girl-heart  turned  and  clung  to  you ! 

How  near  comes  back  that  dismal  day 
You  sat,  sad-faced,  with  naught  to  say, 
From  morn  till  night !     I  did  not  dare 
Even  to  ask  to  soothe  your  care  ; 
I  knew  it  was  too  sadly  grand 
To  feel  the  light  touch  of  my  hand. 


68  City  Ballads. 


Ah !  friends  you  loved  had  gone  astray, 
And  swept  our  competence  away; 
And  oh,  I  strove  so  hard  to  save 
Your  honored  gray  hairs  from  the  grave ! 
Too  late!  your  sun  went  down  o'er- soon, 
Clouded,  in  life's  mid- after  noon. 
You  guarded  me  with  patience  rare 
From  e'en  the  shadow  of  a  care; 
You  called  me  "Princess;"  and  my  room 
Was  dressed  as  palaces  might  be ; 
And — here  I  am  amid  this  gloom 
That  mocks,  insults,  and  murders  me, 
Striving  a  garret's  rent  to  pay, 
And — earning  twenty  cents  a  day! 


FEBRUARY  20,  1-s— . 

I  cannot  well  afford  to  write — 
My  fingers  are  in  call  elsewhere; 
But  I  must  voice  my  black  despair, 
Or  I  should  die  before  'twas  night. 
I  have  no  mother  now  to  call, 
And  seek  her  heart,  and  tell  her  all. 
O,  Mother !  well  I  know  you  rest 
In  yonder  heaven,  serene  and  blest : 
How  sadly,  strangely  sweet  'twould  be 
To  know  you  knew  and  pitied  me ! 
And  yet  I  would  not  have  you  dream 
E'en  of  the  dagger's  faintest  gleam 
That's  pointing  at  my  maiden  breast. 
Rest  on,  sweet  mother,  sweetly  rest ! 
And  still  I  feel  your  loving  art, 
Sometimes  upon  my  aching  heart. 
That  night  I  stood  upon  the  pier, 
And  the  gray  river  swept  so  near, 
And  glanced  up  at  me  in  a  way 
Some  one  with  friendly  voice  might  say, 
"Come  to  my  arms  and  rest,  poor  girl." 
And  I  leaned  down  with  head  a  whirl, 


Want. 

And  heart  so  heavy  it  might  sink 
Me  underneath  the  river's  brink, 
A  hand  I  could  not  feel  or  see 
Drew  me  away  and  fondled  me ; 
A  voice  I  felt,  unheard,  though  near, 
Said,  "  Wait !  you  must  not  enter  here, 
And  press  against  me  with  one  stain. 
Poor  girl,  not  long  you  need  remain !" 

But,  O  sweet  mother!  I  must  write 

The  words  that  would  be  said  to-night, 

If  you  could  hold  my  tired  head  here! 

I  cannot  see  one  gleam  of  cheer ; 

This  is  a  garret  room,  so  bleak 

The  cold  air  stings  my  fading  cheek ; 

Tireless  my  room,  my  garb  is  thin, 

And  hateful  Hunger  has  come  in, 

And  says,  "  Toil  on,  you  foolish  one ! 

You  shall  be  mine  when  all  is  done." 

Two  days  and  nights  of  pain  and  dread 

I've  gnawed  upon  a  crust  of  bread 

(For  what  scant  nourishment  'twould  give) 

So  hard,  I  could  not  eat  and  live ! 

O  mother!  I  to  God  shall  pray 

This  tale  in  heaven  may  ne'er  be  told ; 

For  you  are  where  whole  streets  are  gold. 

And  I — earn  twenty  cents  a  day! 


FEBRUARY  22,  18—. 

He  never  loved  me.     For  no  one 
Could  love  and  do  as  he  has  done. 
How  my  heart  clung  and  clung  to  him, 
E'en  when  respect  and  faith  grew  dim; 
His  lightest  touch  could  thrill  me  so ! 
Weak  girl,  'twas  hard  to  bid  him  go. 
Though  wayward  was  his  heart  I  knew, 
I  would  have  sworn  that  he  was  true! 


72  City  Ballads. 


Oh,  how  I  loved  him!   or  maybe 
Loved  some  one  that  I  thought  was  he. 
They  brought  me — what?  his  mangled  corse? 
Would  God  they  had !     They  brought  me  worse. 

I  saw  one  who  should  bear  his  name,    v 
One  whose  pale  face  was  fiercely  grieved, 
One  whom  he  wantonly  deceived, 
And  sentenced  to  a  life  of  shame. 
That  was  the  end.     I  could  not  wed 
A  man  whose  nobler  self  was  dead. 

O,  man! — a  brave  and  god-like  race, 

But  you  can  be  so  vile  and  base ! 

And  when  there  is  no  urgent  need, 

You  can  protect  us  \vell  indeed; 

But  when  adversity  is  near, 

When  the  wave  breaks  upon  our  head, 

When  we  are  crushed  with  want  and  dread, 

Then  we  have  most  from  you  to  fear. 

Why  do  men  strangely  look  me  o'er 

When  I  their  mercy  need  the  more? 

Do  they  not  know  a  girl  may  taste 

The  dregs  of  want  and  yet  be  chaste? 

Should  woman  sell  her  soul  away 

To  save  its  manacles  of  clay? 


FEBRUARY  23,  1885. 

All  honest  means  of  life  have  failed. 

The  small  accomplishments  I've  tried 

That  pleased  friends  in  my  days  of  pride, 

Are  naught ;  but  vice  has  not  prevailed, 

And,  thank  Heaven,  should  not,  though  my  heart 

Were  torn  a  thousand  times  apart. 

But  God  shield  helpless  girls  alway 

Who  live  on  twenty  cents  a  day ! 


Want. 


73 


FEBRUARY  24,  1885. 


Weak,  weak,  still  weaker  do  I  grow: 
My  mournful  fate  I  can  but  know; 
God,  keep  me  not  long  here,  I  pray, 
To  toil — on  twenty  cents  a  day! 


FEBRUARY  26,  1885. 

Oh,  horrors !  is  it — is  it  true 
What  I  have  read  ? — if  I  but  knew ! 
O,  God,  tell  me  where  can  I  fly, 
Not  to  be  found  when  I  shall  die ! 
They  say  dead  waifs  are  oft  by  night 
Robbed  of  a  decent  burial's  right ; 
That  fiends  the  friendless  bodies  bear 
To  crowds  of  waiting  students,  where 
Men  tear  them  up  for  men  to  see. 
O,  God,  sweet  God,  do'  pity  me  ! 
And  I  will  humbly  pray  to  men : 
If  this  should  come  within  the  ken 
Of  one  who  lives  a  true-loved  life, 
Of  one  who  sister  has,  or  wife ; 
One  who  loves  women  for  the  best 
That  is  in  them,  whose  lips  have  pressed 
Pure,  genuine  lips,  whom  women  trust, 
Whose  heart  is  free  from  loathsome  lust ; 
One  whom  I  would  have  loved  if  he 
Brother  or  husband  were  to  me— 
I  ask  you — nay,  I  do  command 
With  that  imperiousness  you  so 
Like  from  a  white  and  shapely  hand— 
I  order  you — but  no,  no,  no ; 
I  am  past  that — I  humbly  pray 
That  you  will  see  that  I  unmarred 
Have  Christian  burial      Guard,  oh  guard, 
You  men  with  manly  hearts   and  souls, 
My  poor  dead  body  from  the  ghouls! 


74  City  Ballads. 

I  strove  alway  to  keep  it  pure 
As  the  soul  in  me ;  it  Las  been 
Type  of  the  thoughts  that  lived  within, 
The  white  slave  of  what  shall  endure, 
My  spirit's  loved  though  humble  mate ; 
Let  none  its  white  limbs  desecrate! 

Weaker — yet  weaker — 'tis  to  die 

This  sharp  pain  bids  me.     Ah!  good-bye, 

World  that  I  was  too  weak  for — 


MARCH  10,  18—. 

Back  from  a  journey ;  mournful,  it  is  true, 

But  mingled  with  a  deep-down  sweetness,  too. 

After  the  law  with  that  poor  girl  was  done, 

I  found  permission  with  the  proper  one, 

And,  though  such  things  by  law  could  not  occur, 

In  my  heart-family  I  adopted  her. 

(Help  much  too  late  to  benefit  her,  living — 

It's  that  way  with  a  good  share  of  our  giving!) 

But,  with  a  father's  love,  "Poor  girl!"  I  said, 

"You  shall  have  all  that  I  can  give  you,  dead!" 

I  found,  by  lightning  inquiries  I  made, 

The  graveyard  where  her  own  loved  ones  were  laid; 

I  had  her  body  tenderly  removed, 

And  placed  among  the  dear  ones  that  she  loved, 

With  all  the  honor  that  the  poor,  sweet  child 

Would  have  if  Fortune  still  upon  her  smiled. 

And  when  once  more  the  flowers  of  summer  blow, 

My  wife  and  daughters  and  myself  will  go 

And  make  the  sad  but  grateful  duty  ours 

To  see  her  last  earth-dwelling  roofed  with  flowers. 


FIRE. 

[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

MARCH   15,  18—. 

FIRE! — fire! — fire! — fire! — it  sets  me  in  a  craze 

To  see  a  first-class  building  all  ablaze ; 

A  burning  house  resembles,  when  I'm  nigh, 

Some  old  acquaintance  just  about  to  die; 

For  structures  that  a  person  often  sees 

Look  some  like  human  beings — same  as  trees. 

(There  used  to  be  some  trees  on  my  old  place 

That  I'd  know  anywhere — just  by  their  face.) 

And  when,  last  night,  some  bells  began  to  cry, 

And  big  fire-engines  rushed  and  rattled  by, 

In  just  three  minutes  down  the  stairs  I  strode, 

And  hurried — somewhat  dressed — into  the  road 

(Partly  to  help  a  bit,  if  so  might  be, 

And  partly,  I  suppose,  to  hear  and  see). 

It  was  a  dark  and  thunder- stormy  night; 

There  wasn't  one  inch  of  honest  sky  in  sight; 

Great  black -finned  clouds  were  swimming  through  the  air. 

And  now  and  then  their  lightning- eyes  would  glare, 

And,  like  a  lot  of  cannon  far  away, 

Some  peals  of  thunder  came  from  o'er  the  bay. 

'Twas  one  of  those  strange  nights  I  can't  explain, 

That  make  you  think  they're  just  a-going  to  rain, 

But  never  do — save  now  and  then  a  trace 

Of  a  small  drop  comes  dashing  on  your  face ; 


76  City  Ballads. 

One  of  those  nights  that  try  to  keep  you  vexed 
And  wondering  as  to  what  will  happen  next. 
I  like  such  times :  they  kind  of  draw  me  nearer 
To  things  unseen,  and  make  all  mystery  clearer. 

I  ran  like  sin,  and  reached  the  fire  at  last : 

A  good-sized  church  was  going,  pretty  fast. 

(I'd  noticed  it  a  hundred  times  or  more, 

And  several  times  had  stepped  inside  the  door.) 

The  burglar  flames  within  had  prowled  around 

A  long  time  previous  to  their  being  found, 

Till  they  had  gained  such  foothold  and  such  might 

They'd  turned  to  robbers — stealing  plain  in  sight. 

The  dome  and  spires  had  on  them  flags  of  red ; 

They  soon  came  thundering  down  from  overhead. 

It  looked  as  if  infernal  spirits   came, 

To  take  this  church  away,  in  smoke  and  flame ! 

I  wondered,  in  that  wild,  expensive  glare, 
How  many  of  the  home- robbed  flock  were  there 
To  see  the  shelter  where  their  souls  had  fed 
Swept  from  existence  by  that  broom  of  red. 
Here  was  the  family  pew,  so  long  time  prized ; 
There  was  the  font  where  they  had  been  baptized ; 
Here  was  the  altar,  where  one  day  they  stood, 
Started  for  Heaven,  and  promised  to  be  good ; 
Or  where  they'd  wept  around  some  cherished  love 
Who'd  "taken  a  letter"  to  The  Church  above. 
And  still  I  thought,  as  my  eyes  soulward  turned, 
How  many  things  there  are  that  can't  be  burned ; 
But  still  we  cling,  and  cling,  and  hate  to  part 
With  the  place  where  we  found  them  on  the  start. 

A  sneerish  sort  of  fellow  stood  by  me, 

And  said,  "  To  such  extent  as  I  can  see, 

When  churches  get  afire,  by  night  or  day, 

The  Lord  stands  still  and  lets  'em  burn  away. 

If  this  is  His  abode  beyond  a  doubt, 

Why  doesn't  He  raise  his  hand  and  put  it  out?" 


Fire. 

Said  I,  "Young  man,  please  do  not  try  to  aid 
With  your  advice  the  mighty  Power  that  made 
What  little  there  is  of  you.     There  are  still 
Schemes  you  don't  comprehend,  and  never  will. 
You're  talented,  I  think ;  but  no  one  cares 
To  have  you  help  the  Lord  in  His   affairs. 
Why,  probably,  right  where  that  church  has  stood, 
There'll  soon  be  built  another,  twice  as  good ; 
And  some  mean,  tight  insurance  company  will 
Perhaps  be  made  to  pay  more'n  half  the  bill. 
The  Lord  knows,  in  these  fool- confounding  scenes, 
When  to  rebuild,  and  where  to  get  the  means." 

lie  turned  away  his  head  exceeding  far, 

And  lit  a  little  bit  of  white  cigar ; 

But  gave,  "to  such  extent  as  I  could  see," 

~No  more  of  his  theology  to  me. 

I'm  none  too  good;  but  when  men  jeer  and  flout, 

I  like  to  have  them  know  what  they're  about. 


77 


\From  Arthur  S-elwyrCs 
WHEN   PROMETHEUS    STOLE   THE   FLAME. 

When  Prometheus   stole  the  flame, 
Did  he  know  what  with  it  came? 
Did  he  look  afar  and  see 
All  the  blessings  that  would  be? 
Could  he  view  the  gentle  gloam 
Of  the  fireside  of  a  home  ? 
Or  the  centre -table's  blaze, 
Turning  evenings  into  days, 
Where,  encamped  with  quiet  zest, 
Happy  children  toil  and  rest? 
Did  he  view  the  parlor's  gleam, 
Or  the  'wildering  palace  dream  ? 


78  City  Ballads. 

See  the  torch's  floating  glare 
.  Burn  its  way  through  walls  of  air; 
Or,  through  under- regions  trace 
Earth's  remotest  hiding-place? 
Did  he  see  the  flags  of  steam 
O'er  the  cities  flash  and  gleam? 
To  his  vision,  like  a  star, 
Did  the  light-house  gleam  afar, 
Which  another  eye  should  be 
To  the  traveller  of  the  sea? 
If  Prometheus,  tortured — bound — 
Knew  the  blessings  man  had  found. 
Then  his  sufferings  must  have  been 
Soothed  by  blessings  from  within. 


When  Prometheus  stole  the  flame, 
Did  he  know  what  with  it  came? 
Did  he  see  the  fire  up- steal, 
Rise,  and  take  its  midnight  meal? 
Did  he  view  the  palace  wall 
Stumble  'mid  the  smoke  and  fall? 
Did  he  see  some  cherished  home 
Feed  a  fiery  ocean's  foam? 
Did  he  hear  the  war -alarms 
Of  a  nation  called  to  arms, 
And  behold  men,  in  their  ire, 
Murdering  men  with  bolts  of  fire? 
Did  some  miscreant  cross  his  sight, 
Bent  on  booty  or  on  spite, 
Stealing  steps  into  the  dark, 
With  the  incendiary  spark? 
Did  there,  faint  and  haggard,  rise 
Ghosts  before  his  startled  eyes, 
Godly  men  of  scathless  name, 
Felled  for  fuel  to  the  flame ; 
In  a  short-lived  earthly  hell 
Thrown,  for  voicing  heaven  too  well 


Fire. 

If  he  knew  that  glittering  thing 
Would  to  Earth  such  curses  bring, 
Then  his  sufferings  may  have  been 
Edged  with  poison  from  within. 


[From  Farmer  Harringtons  Calendar.] 

MARCH  20,  18—. 

Somehow,  the  fire  I  saw  not  long  ago 
Has  subsequently  chased  me,  high  and  low; 
Runs  back  and  forth  betwixt  my  head  and  heart, 
And  shows  no  disposition  to  depart. 

And  so  I've  wandered  'round  (too  much,  perhaps), 
And  got  acquainted  with  the  fireman  chaps, 
And  planted  good  cigars  where  they  would  seem 
Inclined  to  grow  up  helpful  to  my  scheme. 
(I  never  smoke ;  but,  travelling  near  and  far, 
There's  few  things  help  one  like  a  good  cigar; 
When  safe  between  a  neighbor's  teeth  'tis  hung, 
It  oils  his  ways  and  loosens  up  his  tongue. 
I  get  more  from  cigars,  before  it's  through, 
Than  all  the  fellows  that  I  give  them  to. 
Perhaps  they  should  not  smoke;  but,  if  they  will, 
My  method  helps  their  families  foot  the  bill.) 

Not  long  ago  a  sturdy  fireman  lad, 
Who  smoked  up  every  last  cigar  I  had, 
Unrolled  the  following  story  to  my  view, 
Which  I  believe  (conditionally)  true : 


"FLASH:"  THE  FIREMAN'S   STORY. 

"Flash"  was  a  white-foot  sorrel,  an'  run  on  Number  Three 
Not  much  stable  manners — an  average  horse  to  see; 
Notional  in  his  methods  —  strong  in  loves  an'  hates; 
Not  very  much  respected,  or  popular  'mongst  his  mates. 


8o 


City  Ballads. 


Dull  an'  moody  an'  sleepy,  an'  "off"  on  quiet  days; 
Full  o'  turbulent,  sour  looks,  an'  small,  sarcastic  ways ; 
Scowled  an'  bit  at  his  partner,  an'  banged  the  stable  floor — 
With  other  means  intended  to  designate  life  a  bore. 

But  when,  be't  day  or  night   time,  he  heard  the  alarm-bell  ring, 
He'd  rush  for  his  place  in  the  harness  with  a  regular  tiger  spring; 


u  HE    BEGGED    THAT    HORSE'S    PARDON    UPON    HIS    BENDED    KNEES." 


An'  watch,  with  nervous  shivers,  the  clasp  of  buckle  an'  band, 
Until  'twas  plainly  evident  he'd  like  to  lend  a  hand. 

An'  when  the  word  was  given,  away  he  would  rush  an'  tear, 
As  if  a  thousand  witches  was  rumplin'  up  his  hair, 
An'  craze  the  other  horses  with  his   magnetic  charm, 
Till  every  hoof-beat  sounded  a  regular  fire-alarm! 


Fire.  8 1 

Never  a  horse  a  jockey  would  notice  an'  admire 

Like  Flash  in  front  of  his  engine  a-runnin'  to  a  fire ; 

Never  a  horse  so  lazy,  so  dawdliri',  an'  so  slack, 

As  Flash  upon  his  return  trip,  a-drawin'  the  engine  back. 

Now,  when  the  different  horses  gets  tender-footed  an'  old, 
They're  no  use  in  our  business ;  sok  Flash  was  finally  sold 
To  quite  a  respectable  milkman,  who  found  it  not  so  fine 
A-bossin'  one  o'  God's  creatures  outside  it's  natural  line. 

Seems  as  if  I  could  see  Flash  a-mopin'  along  here  now, 
Feelin'  that  he  was  simply  assistant  to  a  cow ; 
But  sometimes  he'd  imagine  he  heard  the  alarm-bell's  din, 
An'  jump  an'  rear  for  a  season  before  they  could  hold  him  in ; 

An'  once,  in  spite  o'  his  master,  he  strolled  in  'mongst  us  chaps, 
To  talk  with  the  other  horses,  of  former  fires,  perhaps ; 
Whereat  the  milkman  kicked  him ;  whereat,  us  boys  to  please, 
He  begged  that  horse's  pardon  upon  his  bended  knees. 

But  one  day,  for  a  big  fire  as  we  was  makin'  a  dash, 
Both  o'  the  horses  we  had  on   somewhat  resemblin'  Flash, 
Yellin'  an'  ringin'  an'  rushin',  with  excellent  voice  an'  heart, 
We  passed  the  poor  old  fellow,  a-tuggin'  away  at  his  cart. 

If  ever  I  see  an  old  hoss  grow  upward  into  a  new— 
If  ever  I  see  a  milkman  whose  traps  behind  him  flew, 
'Twas  that  old  hoss,  a-rearin'  an'  racin'  down  the  track, 
An'  that  respectable  milkman  a-tryin'  to  hold  him  back. 

Away  he  rushed  like  a  cyclone  for  the  head  o'  "Number  Three," 
Gained  the  lead,  an'  kept  it,  an'  steered  his  journey  free; 
Dodgin'  wagons  an'  horses,  an'  still  on  the  keenest  "silk," 
An'  furnishin'  all  that  neighborhood  with  good,  respectable  milk. 

Crowd  a-yellin'  an'  runnin',  an'  vainly  hollerin'  "Whoa!" 
Milkman  bracin'  an'  sawin',  with  never  a  bit  o'  show; 
Firemen  laughin'  an'  chucklin',  an'  shoutin'  "  Good !  go  in !" 
Hoss  a-gettin'  down  to  it,  an'  sweepin'  along  like  sin. 

6 


82 


City  Ballads. 


AWAY    HE    RUSHED    LIKE    A   CYCLONE    FOR   THE    HEAD    0'    'NUMBER   THREE.'" 


Finally  came  where  the  fire  was — halted  with  a  "thud;" 
Sent  the  respectable  milkman  heels   over  head  in  mud ; 
Watched  till  he  see  the  engines  properly  workin'  there, 
After  which  he  relinquished  all  interest  in  the  affair. 

Moped  an'  wilted  an'  dawdled,  "faded  away"  once  more, 
Took  up  his  old  occupation — considerin'  life  a  bore ; 
Laid  down  in  his  harness,  an' — sorry  I  am  to  say — 
The  milkman  he  had  drawn  there  took  his  dead  body  away. 


Fire. 

That's  the  whole  o'  my  story :   I've  seen,  more'n  once  or  twice, 
That  poor  dead  animals'  actions  is  full  o'  human  advice; 
An'  if  you  ask  what  Flash  taught,  I'll  simply  answer,  then, 
That  poor  old  horse  was  a  symbol  of  some  intelligent  men. 


An'  if,  as  some  consider,  there's  animals  in  the  sky, 

[  think  the  poor  old  fellow  is  gettin'  another  try; 

But  if  he  should  sniff  the  big  fire  that  plagues  the  abode  o'  sin, 

It'll  take  the  strongest  angel  to  hold  the  old  fellow  in. 


MARCH  20, 

Speaking  of  fires,  my  powers  of  language  fail; 
They  run  them  here  upon  so  large  a  scale. 
My  son,  Charles  Sumner  (who  is,  by-the-way, 
In  Europe — terms  ten  dollars  by  the  day, 
Paid  strictly  in  advance),  can  rhyme  somewhat, 
And  often  seems  to  me  to  touch  the  spot, 
And  light  the  truth  up  with  a  healthier  glare, 
And  make  it  truth/idler  fcr  his  being  there. 


84  City  Ballads. 

(But  in  such  furrows  human  nature  runs, 

That  old  men  aren't  good  critics  for  their  sons.) 

He  used  to  rush  (as  youngsters  often  will) 

To  every  fire  we  had  at  Tornpkins  Hill, 

And  seemed  to  plan  less  how  to  put  them  out 

Than  to  get  something  new  to  write  about. 

He  struck  a  rhyme  I  think  isn't  over  bad, 

About  a  "fire"  our  little  village  had 

(Or  city;  for  that  town  took  city  airs 

Before  its  village  short-clothes  reached  repairs). 

I  found  a  copy  of  it   t'other  day 

Where  he  had  laid  it  carefully  away, 

To  keep  me  from  not  finding  it  (he  meant 

To  get  it  back  in  the  next  check  I  sent). 

'Twill  cost  me  several  dollars  yet,  I  fear; — 

I'll  paste  the  fellow's  nonsense  right  in  here : 


HOW  WE   FOUGHT  THE   FIRE. 


'Twas  a  drowsy  night  on  Tompkins  Hill : 

The  very  leaves  of  the  trees  lay  still ; 

The  world  was  slumbering,  ocean  deep; 

And  even  the  stars  seemed  half  asleep, 

And  winked  and  blinked  at  the  roofs  below, 

As  yearning  for  morn,  that  they  might  go. 

The  streets  as  stolid  and  still  did  lie 

As  they  would  have  done  if  streets  could  die; 

The  sidewalks  stretched  as  quietly  prone 

As  if  a  foot  they  had  never  known ; 

And  not  a  cottage  within  the  town, 

But  looked  as  if  it  would  fain  lie  down. 

Away  in  the  west  a  stacken-cloud, 

With  white  arms  drooping  and  bare  head  bowed, 

Was  leaning  against — with  drowsy  eye — 

The  dark  blue  velveting  of  the  sky. 


Fire.  85 

And  that  was  the  plight 

Things  were  in  that  night, 
Before  we  were  roused  the  foe  to  fight — 
The  foe  so  greedy  and  grand  and  bright — 

That  plagued  old  Deacon  Tompkins. 

II. 

The  Deacon  lay  on  his  first  wife's  bed, 

His  second  wife's  pillow  beneath  his  head, 

His  third  wife's  coverlet  o'er  him  wide, 

His  fourth  wife  slumbering  by  his  side. 

The  parson  visioned  his  Sunday's  text, 

And  what  he  should  hurl  at  Satan  next; 

The  doctor  a  drowsy  half-vigil  kept, 

Still  studying,  as  he  partly  slept, 

How  men  might  glutton,  and  tope,  and  fly 

In  the  face  of  Death,  and  still  not  die ; 

The  lawyer  dreamed  that  his  clients  meant 

To  club  together,  and  then  present, 

As  proof  that  their  faith  had  not  grown  dim, 

A  small  bright  silver  hatchet  to  him ; 

The  laborer  such  sound  slumber  knew, 

He  hadn't  a  dream  the  whole  night  through  ; 

The  ladies  dreamed — but  I  can't  say  well 

What  'tis  they  dream,  for  they  never  tell ! 

In  short,  such  a  general  drowsy  time 

Had  ne'er  been  known  in  that  sleepy  clime, 

As  on  the  night 

Of  clamor  and  fright, 

"We  were  roused  the  treacherous  foe  to  fight — 
The  foe  so  greedy  and  grand  and  bright, 
And  carrying  such  an  appetite — 

That  plagued  old  Deacon  Tompkins. 

III. 

When  all  at  once  the  old  court-house  bell 
(Which  had  a  voice  like  a  maniac's  yell) 
Cried  out,  as  if  in  its  dim  old  sight 
The  judgment -day  had  come  in  the  night. 
6* 


86  City  Ballads. 

"Bang  whang  whang  bang  clang  dang  bang  whang," 

The  poor  old  parcel  of  metal  sang; 

Whereat,  from  mansion,  cottage,  and  shed, 

Rose  men  and  women  as  from  the  dead, 

In  different  stages  of  attire, 

And  shouted,  "  The  town  is  all  afire  !" 

(Which  came  as  near  to  being  true 

As  some  more  leisurely  stories  do.) 

They  saw  on  the  Deacon's  house  a  glare, 

And  everybody  hurried  there ; 

And  such  a  lot  of  visitors  he 

Had  never  before  the  luck  to  see. 

The  Deacon  received  these  guests  of  night 

In  a  costume  very  simple  and  white ; 

And  after  a  drowsy,  scared  "  Ahem !" 

He  asked  them  what  he  could  do  for  them. 

"  Fire !  fire !"  they  shouted ;  "  your  house's  afire !'? 

And  then,  with  energy  sudden  and  dire, 

They  rushed  through  the  mansion's  solitudes, 

And  helped  the  Deacon  to  move  his  goods. 

And  that  was  the  sight 

We  had  that  night, 

When  roused  by  the  people  who  saw  the  light 
Atop  of  the  cottage,  cozy  and  white, 

Where  lived   old  Deacon  Tompkins. 

IV. 

Ah  me !  the  way  that  they  rummaged  round ! 
Ah  me !  the  startling  things  they  found ! 
No  one  with  a  fair  idea  of  space 
Would  ever  have  thought  that  in  one  place 
Were  half  the  things  that,  with  a  shout, 
These  neighborly  burglars  hustled  out. 
Came  articles  that  the  Deacon's  wives 
Had  all  been  gathering  half  their  lives; 
Came  furniture  such  as  one  might  see 
Didn't  grow  in  the  trunk  of  every  tree ; 
A  tall  clock,  centuries  old,  'twas  said, 
Leaped  out  of  a  window,  heels  o'er  head; 


HOW    \VE    FOUGHT    THE    FIRE. 


Fire.  89 

A  veteran  chair,  in  which,  when  new, 

George  Washington  sat  for  a  minute  or  two ; 

A  bedstead  strong,  as  if  in  its  lap 

Old  Time  might  take  his  terminal  nap; 

Dishes,  that  in  meals  long  agone 

The  Deacon's  fathers  had  eaten  on ; 

Clothes,  made  of  every  cut  and  hue, 

That  couldn't  remember  when  they  were  new; 

A  mirror,  scathless  many  a  day 

('Twas  promptly  smashed  in  the  regular  way); 

Old  shoes  enough,  if  properly  thrown, 

To  bring  good  luck  to  all  creatures  known; 

And  children  thirteen,  more  or  less, 

In  varying  plenitude  of  dress. 

And  that  was  the  sight 

We  had  that  night, 
When  roused,  the  terrible  foe  to  fight, 
Which  blazed  aloft  to  a  moderate  height, 
And  turned  the  cheeks  of  the  timid  white, 

Including  Deacon  Tompkiiis. 

V. 

Lo!  where  the  engines,  reeking  hot, 
Dashed  up  to  the  interesting  spot : 
Came  Number  Two,  "The  City's  Hope," 
Propelled  by  a  line  of  men  and  rope; 
And  after  them,  on  a  spiteful  run, 
"The  Ocean  Billows,"  or  Number  One. 
And  soon  the  two,  induced  to  "play" 
By  a  hundred  hands,  were  working  away, 
Until,  to  the  Deacon's  flustered  sight, 
As  he  danced  about  in  his  robe  of  white, 
It  seemed  as  if,  by  the  hand  of  Fate, 
House  -  cleaning  day  were  some  two  years  late, 
And  with  complete  though  late  success, 
Had  just  arrived  by  the  night  express. 
The  "Ocean  Billows"  were  at  high  tide, 
And  flung  their  spray  upon  every  side; 


go  City  Ballads. 

The  "City's  Hope"  were  in  perfect  trim, 
Preventing  aught  like  an  interim ; 
And  a  u  Hook-and-Ladder  Company"  came, 
With  hooks  and  ropes  and  a  long  hard  name, 
And  with  an  iconoclastic  frown 
Were  about  to  pull  the  whole  thing  down, 
When  some  one  raised  the  assuring  shout, 
"  It's  only  the  chimney  a-burnin'  out !" 
Whereat,  with  a  sense  of  injured  trust, 
The  crowd  went  home  in  complete  disgust. 
Scarce  one  of  those  who,  with  joyous  shout, 
Assisted  the  Deacon  in  moving  out, 
Refrained  from  the  homeward-flowing  din, 
To  help  the  Deacon  at  moving  in. 

And  that  was  the  plight 

In  which,  that  night, 
They  left  the  Deacon,  clad  in  white, 
Who  felt  he  was  hardly  treated  right, 
And  used  some  words,  in  the  flickering  light, 
Not  orthodox  in  their  purport  quite — 

Poor,  put- out  Deacon  Tompkins ! 


\From  Arthur  Selwyn's  Note-book.] 

Let  me  a  moment  indite 

Scenes  that  I  witnessed  one  night : 


["YOU  WILL  TELL  ME  WHERE  IS  CONRAD?"] 

u  You  will  tell  me  where  is  Conrad  ?"  said  an  old  man,  bent  and  gray, 
While  the  flames  were  wildly  dancing,  and  the  walls  were  giving  way. 

"  I  haf  heard  some  ones  was  buried — underneath  the  ruins  fell ; 
He  was  in  de  topmost  story — ach,  mem  Gott !  I  luf  him  well ! 

"  I  will  tell  you  how  you  knew  him :  he  had  full  and  laughing  eye, 
And  his  face  was  smooth  and  smiling — and  he  was  too  young  to  die. 


Fire.  QI 

"  Hair  he  liad  like  clouds  at  sunset  when  anodher  day  is  done, 
And  I  luf  him — how  I  luf  him !   and  he  is   mein  only  son. 

"  Say,  Policeman,  tell  me  truly  that  this  young  man  you  did  see 
And  I  all  the  money  gif  you,  such  as  I  could  bring  with  me. 

•      "Tell  me  that  he  anxious  acted — that  he  hunted  far  and  long, 
Like  as  children  would  be  calling  for  their  fadher  in  a  throng; 

"  Or  he  wounded  was,  pray  tell  me — in  the  hospital  to  lie  ? 

I  will  just  now  hasten  to  him,  and  I  not  will  let  him  die ! 

"Tell  me — oh,  you  must  not  told  me — dead  you  haf  my  Conrad  see? 
Yet  if  so  is  I  can  stand  that — I  did  long  a  soldier  be. 

"  Only — Death,  we  do  not  fear  him  when  we  hear  the  bullets  sing, 
But  to  haf  my  boy  killed  this  way  is  a  rather  different  thing. 

"  Only — that  his  poor  old  mudher,  she  waits  home  all  full  of  fear, 
And  I  cannot  there  be  going,  till  I  take  good  news  from  here ! 

"Young  he   was   when   we  did  bring   him   from   the  Rhine  land   o'er 

the  sea; 
I  did  lif  for  her  and  Conrad — she  did  lif  for  him  and  me. 


"  Other   ones   we    bring  not   with   us :  Gott   he   says,  '  These   more   be 

mine ;' 
And  we  left  them  all  a-sleeping  'mong  the  vineyards  of  the  Rhine. 


"  He  haf  not  a  cross  word  gif  us — he  haf  luf  us  every  day, 
And  if  he  to-night  comes  home  not,  'tis  the  first  that  he's  away. 

"  Let  me  to  that  fire,  Policeman !     I  care  what  for  walls  or  brand  ? 
Maybe  he  in  there  be  living — reaching  for  his  fadher's  hand  1 

"Let  me  past,  I  say,  Policeman!  I  haf  work  there  to  be  done! 
Let  go  me  or  I  will  strike  you! — is  it  that  you  haf  no  son?" 


92  City  Ballads. 

Still  the  flames  were  like  a  furnace,  and  the  walls  were  crashing  loud, 
And  the  old  man,  held  in  safety,  fainted  'mid  the  trembling  crowd. 

And  the   mother  watched  and  wondered,  with  her  great  eyes   scarcely 

wet; 
But,  half  dazed  amid  her  sorrow,  waits  for  Conrad  even  yet. 


WATER. 

{From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.'} 

APRIL  25,  18— 

RAIN — rain — rain — rain — for  three  good  solid  fluid  weeks 

Till  the  air  swims,  and  all  creation  leaks ! 

And  street-cars  furnish  still  less  room  to  spare, 

And  hackmen  several  times  have  earned  their  fare. 

The  omnibuses  lumber  through  the  din, 

And  carry  clay  outside  as  well  as  in ; 

The  elevated  trains,  with  jerky  care, 

Haul  half-way  comfort  through  the  dripping  air; 

The  gutters  gallop  past  the  liquid  scene, 

As  brisk  as  meadow  brooks,  though  not  so  clean ; 

What  trees  the  city  keeps  for  comfort's  sake, 

Are  shedding  tears  as  if  their  hearts  would  break ; 

And  water  tries  to  get,  by  storming  steady, 

That  fourth  of  all  the  world  it  hasn't  already. 

And  men  are  not  so  sweet  as  men  could  wish, 

In  air  that  wouldn't  offend  a  moderate  fish ; 

Few  places  can  be  found,  outside  or  in, 

Where  this  dark-featured  wreather  has  not  been  ; 

For  man  has  always  striven,  and  in  vain, 

To  roof  his  disposition  from  the  rain. 

I've  strolled  about,  this  morning,  several  miles, 

'Mongst  men  who  get  their  living  by  their  smiles ; 

I've  set  my  old  umbrella  up  to  drip 

In  places  where  I  claimed  relationship 

(Or,  rather,  where  my  heart  did ;  and  that's  more 

Than  blood  connection  is,  sixteen  times  o'er); 


94  City  Ballads. 

I've  journeyed  up  and  down  through  half  Broadway, 
And  did  not  see  a  first-class  smile  to-day. 

And  so,  in  spite  of  all  that  I  can  do, 

These  gold-bowed  spectacles  are  growing  blue ; 

And  my  old  heart  must  bear  along  the  road 

A  fanciful  but  rather  heavy  load ; 

A  painful  pressure  from  a  hand  unseen: 

Most  any  one  knows  nearly  what  I  mean. 

I  think  I'll  powder  up  this  dark-skinned  day, 
By  going,  to-night,  to  hear  the  actors  play! 
They'll  make  me  laugh,  and  tone  me  up  a  bit, 
And  get  me  out  of  this  unnatural  fit. 


1 1  o'clock  P.  M. 

Got  back  alive ;  and  that's  worth  thinking  on, 
From  where  there's  been  such  lots  of  killing  done ; 
Mercy !  it  was  a  somewhat  skittish  sight — 
So  many  people  butchered  in  one  night ! 
'Twas  just  a  lot  of  people  playing  crime — 
A  sort  of  murder-picnic  all  the  time. 

We  found  the  theatre  with  handbills  spread, 

Near  where  the  notice  in  the  paper  said 

(The  weather  had  slacked  up  an  hour  or  so, 

And  Wife  thought  she  would  condescend  to  go), 

And  after  stumbling  over  several  chaps, 

Who  thought  they'd  met  us  somewhere  else,  perhaps, 

And  cheerfully  addressed  us  o'er  and  o'er, 

As  if  they'd  known  us  several  years  or  more, 

Persisting  in  affording  us  a  chance 

To  buy  our  tickets  at  a  slight  advance 

(The  theatres  employ  these  men,  I've  heard, 

To  greet  their  patrons  with  a  friendly  word, 

And  light  their  way  in  with  kind  word  and  smile, 

And  make  a  dollar  out  of  them  meanwhile); 


Water. 

We  brushed  past  these  remarkable  "dead-beats," 
Some  tickets  bought,  and  scrambled  to  our  seats. 

After  a  piece  of  music  by  the  band, 

The  curtain  rose  before  a  castle  grand, 

And  soldiers   talking,  with  a  half -scared  mien, 

About  a  spook  that  one  of  them  had  seen. 

When  lo !  this  ghost  appears,  plump  to  their  view, 

And  will  not  talk,  although  they  beg  him  to. 

(I  whispered  to  my  wife  that  I'd  a  freak 

That  a  newspaper  man  could  make  him  speak ; 

But  suddenly  my  comments  had  to  cease, 

For  Wife  encouraged  me  to  hold  my  peace.) 

When  lo !   this  ghost,  who,  thus  far,  might  have  come 

Out  of  a  sky-asylum  for  the  dumb, 

Speaks  with  a  queer  but  rather  human  sound, 

When  once  his  son,  the  Prince,  gets  on  the  ground; 

And  taking  him  aside,  ten  feet  almost, 

Tells  the  poor  boy  that  he's  his  father's  ghost, 

Whose  own  false  brother  softly  to  him  crept, 

And  poured  him  full  of  poison  while  he  slept. 

Then  the  young  man  got  mad,  though  to  my  mind 
'Twas  lunacy  of  quite  a  knowing  kind ; 
And  went  to  work  with  an  apparent  view 
Of  killing  off  'most  every  one  he  knew. 

I  haven't  the  time  his  actions  all  to  state ; 

I'll  only  say  he  managed  it  first-rate, 

And  some  way  killed  all  relatives  he  saw, 

From  uncle  to  prospective  father-in-law ; 

And  when  he  got  through,  those  he  hadn't  snuffed  out 

Were  hardly  worth  while  bothering  about. 

(I  mustn't  forget  to  say  that  this  poor  elf 

Became,  at  last,  a  good  square  corpse  himself.) 

I  looked  around,  and,  the  whole  building  through, 
Women  were  shedding  tears  as  if  'twas  true ; 


96  City  Ballads. 

And  Wife  was  'most  too  much  concerned  to  speak, 
And  even  my  old  eyes  had  sprung  a  leak. 
'Twas  a  moist  time ;  and  I  remarked,  "  'Tis  plain 
We've  come  out  of  the  rain  into  the  rain." 

I  got  so  full  of  funeral,  sitting  there, 

Then,  when  we  once  more  sniffed  the  clean,  live  air, 

It  seemed  a  piece  of  good-luck  all  around, 

To  get  away  once  more,  alive  and  sound. 

That's  what  they  call  a  "tragedy;"  where  Death 
Flies  'round  till  he  himself  gets  out  of  breath ; 
And,  with  sword-slashes  and  cold  poison  filled, 
All  who  amount  to  anything,  get  killed. 
It's  part  of  life;  some  time  again  I'll  view  it, 
But  take  a  good  square  rest  before  I  do  it ! 


\From  Arthur  Selwyn's  Note  -book .] 

Here  on  this  sea-beach  I  wander; 
Why  of  the  storms  am  I  fonder 
Than  of  the  sunlight  above  them? 
And  the  clouds:  why  do  I  love  them — 
Waves  of  the  sky,  onward  sweeping, 
Or  to  the  ocean-waves  leaping? 
Why  do  I  court  this  fierce  day, 
Dashing  my  face  full  of  spray? 
Why,  when  the  waves  strike  the  shore 
With  their  strong,  leonine  roar, 
Does  my  soul  fiercely  entreat  them — 
Rush  out  with  rapture  to  meet  them? 
Why  do  I  love  to  descry 
War  in  the  fields  of  the  sky? 
Why  does  the  chain-lightning's  glare, 
Ploughing  blue  meadows  of  air, 
Look  to  my  vision  alway 
Sweet  as  a  star  in  the  day? 


Water. 

You  who  in  fair  summer  weather 
Seek  this  sea -city  together 
(Built  for  tumultuous  rest, 
With  the  famed  ocean  chief  guest), 
Not  half  the  pleasure  you've  known, 
That  I,  here  wand'ring  alone, 
On  these  wet  sand-fields  have  found, 
Hearing  the  ocean's  own  sound, 
Viewing  fierce  waves  from  afar 
Strive  with  the  winter  in  wrar. 
Storms  that  tumultuously  roll 
Far  through  my  innermost  soul — 
Here  you  encounter,  at  last, 
Harmonies  wondrous  and  vast! 


What  did  I  find  on  the  shore? 
Must  I  rehearse  it  once  more? 


[THE   DEAD   STOWAWAY.] 

He  lay  on  the  beach,  just  out  of  the  reach 

Of  waves  that  had  cast  him  by  : 
With  fingers  grim  they  reached  for  him 

As   often  as  they  came  nigh. 
The  shore-face  brown  had  a  surly  frown, 

And  glanced  at  the  dancing  sea, 
As  if  to  say,  "Take  back  the  clay 

You  tossed  this  morning  at  me." 
Great  fragments  rude,  by  the  shipwreck  strewed. 

Had  found  by  this  wreck  a  place ; 
He  had  grasped  them  tight,  and  hope-strewn  fright 

Sat  still  on  the  bloated  face. 
Battered  and  bruised,  forever  abused, 

He  lay  by  the  heartless  sea, 
As  if  Heaven's  aid  had  never  been  made 

For  a  villain  such  as  he. 


98  City  Ballads. 


The  fetter's  mark  lay  heavy  and  dark 

Around  the  pulseless  wrists ; 
The  hardened  scar  of  many  a  war 

Clung  yet  to  the  drooping  fists. 
The  soul's  disgrace  across  that  face 

Had  built  an  iron  track; 
The  half-healed  gash  of  the  jailman's  lash 

Helped  cover  the  brawny  back. 
The  blood  that  flowed  in  a  crimson  road 

From  a  deep  wound  in  his  head 
Had  felt  fierce  pangs  from  the  poison-fangs 

Of  those  who  his  young  life  fed: 
Cursed  from  the  very  beginning 

With  deeds  that  others  had  done, 
"More  sinned  against  than  sinning  "- 

And  so  is  every  one ! 

He  had  never  learned  save  what  had  turned 

The  steps  of  his  life  amiss ; 
He  never  knew  a  hand-grasp  true, 

Or  the  thrill  of  a  virtuous  kiss. 
'Twas  poured  like  a  flood  through  his  young  blood, 

And  poisoned  every  vein, 
That  wrong  is  right,  that  law  is  spite, 

And  theft  but  honest  gain. 
The  seeds  were  grown  that  had  long  been  sown 

By  the  heart  of  a  murderous  sire : 
Disease  and  shame,  and  blood  aflame 

With  thirst  for  the  founts  of  fire. 
Battered  and  bruised,  forever  abused, 

He  lay  by  the  moaning  sea, 
As  if  Heaven's  aid  were  even  afraid 

Of  a  villain  such  as  he. 

As  he  lay  alone,  like  a  sparrow  prone, 

An  angel  wandered  nigh : 
A  look  she  cast  over  that  dark  past, 

And  tears  came  to  her  eye. 


: 

•j. 
l 

' ,.    ,v 


Water.  101 

She  bent  by  the  dead,  and  tenderly  said : 

"  Poor  child,  you  went  astray ; 
Your  heart  and  mind  were  both  born  blind — 

'No  wonder  they  lost  their  way! 
Angels,  I  know,  had  fallen  as  low 

With  such  a  dismal  chance. 
Your  heart  was  ironed,  your  soul  environed, 

You  were  barred  of  all  advance! 
Cursed  from  the  very  beginning 

With  deeds  that  others  have  done, 
'More  sinned  against  than  sinning' — 

And  so  is  every  one !" 


[From  Farmer  Harringtons  Calendar^. 

MAY  24,  18— 

The  Lord  gave  Water  quite  a  good-sized  start- 
Three  -  fourths  of  this  world's  homestead  for  its  part; 
But  lawyers  are  not  needed  to  convince 
That  Water  has  been  losing  ever  since. 
The  reason  is  not  hard  to  understand : 
For  God's  most  knowing  creatures  live  on  land, 
And,  naturally,  every  chance  they  get, 
Find  some  new  means  to  keep  them  from  the  wet. 
The  farms  their  dykes  have  from  the  ocean  won  ; 
The  ground  men  make  to  build  their  cities  on ; 
The  bridge  that  from  the  river  shelters  me ; 
The  ships — great  travelling  bridges  of  the  sea — 
All  are  an  effort  of  ambitious  man 
To  make  this  world  as  solid  as  he  can. 

These  thoughts,  to-day,  all  through  my  mind  would  run, 

While  looking  at  a  bridge  they've  just  got  done, 

Which  takes  a  man,  dry  shod,  from  shore  to  shore — 

A  matter  of  a  good  long  mile  or  more. 

I  can't  describe  it;  but  I'll  let  the  papers 

(Who  tell  some  truth,  'mid  all  their  fancy  capers) 


IO2  City  Ballads. 

To  my  old  scrap-book  give  of  it  a  taste 
(What  I  can't  do  with  ink  I'll  do  with  paste). 


[From  Arthur  Selwyrfs  Note-bookJ] 
[THE   WEDDING    OF    THE    TOWNS.] 

Let  all  of  the  bells  ring  clear, 

And  all  of  the  flags  be  seen ; 
The  King  of  the  Western  Hemisphere 

Has  married  the  Island  Queen  i 
For  years  he  watched  and  waited 

Along  the  river  side, 
And  vowed   that   she  was  fated 

To  be  his  own  fair  bride; 
Full  many  a  night  he  wooed  her 

Upon  her  lofty  throne, 
And  he  hath  long  pursued  her, 

To  make  the  prize  his  own ; 
~Nor  thankless  his  endeavor, 

NOT  coy  the  royal  maid, 
But,  like  true-love's   course  ever, 

The  banns  were  long  delayed! 


And  boys  to  men  had  grown, 

And  men  their  graves  had  sought ; 
The  gulf  was  yet  between  them  thrown. 

And  the  wooing  came  to  nought. 
Though  couriers  oft  were  dashing 

'Twixt  him  and  his  adored, 
Still  was  the  river  flashing 

Between  them  like  a  sword. 
In  heart  they  well  were  mated; 

And  patiently  and  long 
They  for  each  other  waited — 

These  lovers  true  and  strong. 


Water. 

Let  never  a  flag  be  hidden ! 

Let  never  a  bell  be  dumb ! 
The  guests  have  all  been  bidden— 

The  wedding-day  has  come! 

For  many  a  golden  year 

Shall  gleam  this  silvery  tie : 
The  wondering  world  will  gather  here 

And  gaze  with  gleaming  eye. 
Philosophers  will  ponder 

How,  blessed  by  the  hand  of  Heaven, 
The  world  has  another  wonder 

To  add  to  its  famous  seven ; 
Philanthropists  will  linger 

To  view  the  giant  span, 
And  point  with  grateful  finger 

Where  man  has  toiled  for  man ; 
And  all  will  bless  the  year 

When,  in  the  May-month  green, 
The  King  of  the  Western  Hemisphere 

Was  wed  to  the  Island  Queen ! 


[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar  J\ 

JULY  2,  18— 

Wealth,  wealth,  wealth,  wealth!  with  iron  bars  to  defend  it, 

And  seventeen  hundred  thousand  ways  to  spend  it ! 

How  men  will  work,  in  home  and  foreign  lands, 

To  get  a  lot  of  money  in  their  hands ; 

How  they  will  bar  and  bolt,  by  night  and  day, 

To  keep  some  one  from  stealing  it  away; 

Then,  when  a  fresh  bait  strikes  their  fancy's  eye, 

How  easy  'tis  to  make  them  let  it  fly! 

Lock  up  your  cash  in  places  howe'er  strong, 

You  lose  it  when  the  right  thief  comes  along. 


IO4  City  Ballads. 

There  are  some  families  that  I  could  name, 

"Who,  spring  and  fall  and  winter,  toil  the  same 

As  boys  with  sleds  for  half  an  hour  will  climb, 

To  ride  back  in  about  five  minutes'  time. 

These  fam'lies  pinched  and  starved  nine  months  will  be, 

To  make  a  first-class  show  the  other  three ; 

And  some  whose  fortunes  sprung  up  like  a  flame, 

Can  puff  it  out  even  quicker  than  it  came. 

These  thoughts  grew  like  June  corn  the  other  day, 

As  I  through  Coney  Island  picked  my  way, 

And  found  there,  pert  and  prosperous  as  could  be, 

A  land-and-water  city  by  the  sea; 

And  people  holding,  in  free  easy  style, 

A  Fourth -of -July  picnic  all  the  while. 

Thousands  were  eating  there  amid  the  din, 

As  though  they'd  hardly  time  to  do  it  in ; 

Thousands  were  loitering  in  the  breezy  air, 

As  if  they  had  a  year  or  two  to  spare ; 

And  every  trap  that  ever  caught  a  dime, 

Was  ready  set  and  baited  all  the  time! 

The  ocean,  to  my  unaccustomed  view, 
Seemed  having  quite  a  lively  picnic  too ; 
The  waves  came  slamming  at  us  with  a  roar, 
And  chased  each  other  pell-mell  to  the  shore. 
And  in  these  waves,  and  adding  to  the  noise, 
A  lot  of  men  and  women,  girls  and  boys, 
Dressed  in  a  style  that  made  my  good  wife  frown. 
Like  big-sized  corks  went  bobbing  up  and  down. 
Some  glided  out  and  in,  like  jumping-jacks, 
Some  rode  the  waves — a-lying  on  their  backs ; 
And  some — as  decent  folks  as  one  could  see — 
Made  capers  that  were  very  queer  to  see. 
I  noticed  Miss  Doozell,  much  versed  in  books, 
And  quite  particular  about  her  looks, 
And  dignified  as  any  one  I  know, 
Roll  over  maybe  thirteen  times  or  so; 


Water.  105 

While  Jeremiah  Jipson,  LL.D., 
Who  seldom  makes  a  move  above  the  knee, 
And  who,  all  former  signs  would  seem  to  say, 
ISTever  indulges  in  unseemly  play- 
When  an  irreverent  wave  he  chanced  to  meet, 
Stood  on  his  head,  and  raised  aloft  his  feet. 
The  Ocean  has  no  awe  for  any  one, 
And  always  seems  to  get  more'n  half  the  fun. 

But  how  the  pretty  children  carry  sail! 
Each  with  his  tiny  shovel  and  his  pail, 
Each  working  his  own  little  piece  of  land, 
And  making  small  plantations  in  the  sand! 
These  little  incidents  show  on  their  face 
That  farming's  natural  to  the  human  race! 

When  God's  poor  pretty  ones,  'mid  summer's  blaze, 

Have  lived  'mongst  brick  and  mortar  all  their  days. 

Trying  their  best  to  blossom  and  not  spoil, 

Like  house-plants  kidnapped  from  their  native  soil, 

It  must  be  heaven  to  sit  here  in  the  sand, 

And  take  old  Mother  Earth  right  by  the  hand ! 

To  lie  here,  by  no  brick  blocks  overlooked, 

And  take  a  breath  of  air  that  hasn't  been  cooked! 

God  bless  you,  children!     May't  a  long  time  be, 

Before  the  sand  shall  cover  you  and  me! 

Yes,  every  trap  that  ever  caught  a  dime 

Is  ready  set  and  baited,  all  the  time ! 

Here  nigh  the  shore  a  strange  machine  I  found, 

To  see  how  hard,  with  beetles,  men  could  pound; 

And  several  fellows  tried  it,  o'er  and  o'er, 

Who  never  handled  labor  so  before, 

And  would  have  shown  capacity  to  shirk, 

If  they  had  known  how  much  it  looked  like  work. 

Here  round  and  round  I  saw  a  big  wheel  go, 

Like  an  old-fashioned  horse-power — larger,  though, 

And  worked  by  steam;  and  on  the  sweeps  one  finds 

Big  wooden  animals  of  different  kinds: 


io6  City  Ballads. 

Elephants,  horses,  birds  of  various  hues, 

Lions  and  leopards,  roosters,  kangaroos — 

All  staring  with  great,  stupid,  wondering  eyes, 

And  all  about  the  very  self-same  size ! 

And  on  these  beasts,  sixteen  times  round  or  more, 

Eode  children  of  from  fifty  down  to  four, 

While  some  big-sized  hand-organ  filled  the  air 

With  crack-voiced  music,  plenty  and  to  spare. 

Here  a  big  premium  cow — quite  dead,  alas ! 

Gave  milkman's  milk-and-water  by  the  glass ; 

Here  were  some  great  "museums,"  which  consisted 

Of  wondrous  things  that  never  have  existed ; 

There  omnibuses  hover  on  your  track, 

Ready  to  draw  you  somewhere  else — and  back ; 

Here  "  marine  railroads,"  as  you  onward  plod, 

Will  take  you  riding  at  five  cents  a  rod ; 

This  "elevator"  lifts  you  pretty  high, 

And  shows  you  men  must  look  small  from  the  sky; 

Yon  gambling  den  will  send  you  from  its  door, 

Poorer  and  not  much  wiser  than  before ; 

That  fellow  there  will,  in  an  ocean  view, 

Your  picture  take,  and  swear  that  it  is  you. 

Yes,  every  trap  that  ever  caught  a  dime, 

Is  ready  set  and  baited,  all  the  time ! 

And  sometimes  everything  seems  blurred,  indeed, 
With  man's  surprising  wickedness  and  greed, 
Till  you  most  feel  there's  nothing  genuine  there, 
Excepting  ocean  waves  and  open  air ! 

But  still  they  can't  put  all  God's  plans  to  death 

To  let  the  people  have  an  honest  breath; 

And  so,  while  thinking  it  all  up,  to-day, 

I  finally  felt  called  upon  to  say, 

Thank  the  good  Lord,  from  whom  all  blessings  fall, 

For  making  Coney  Island,  after  all ! 

My  cousin,  Abdiel  Stebbins,  large  and  slow, 
Arrived  at  Ocean  Grove  some  days  ago ; 


Water.  107 

He  stopped  off  in  this  city  on  the  way, 

And  stayed  here  with  us  two  weeks  and  one  day 

(For  we  keep  up  our  airy  home  in  town 

Whether  the  mercury  goes  up  or  down — 

Not  liking  to  exchange  it  very  well 

For  a  small  sweat-box  in  a  large  hotel). 

He  promised  that  the  first  hour  he  could  spare 

He'd  write  us  how  he  liked  it  over  there ; 

The  letter,  like  himself,  is  rather  queer; 

Perhaps  I'd  better  paste  it  right  in  here : 


[FARMER   STEBBINS  AT  OCEAN   GROVE.] 

OCEAN  GROVE,  June  30,  18 — 

DEAR  COUSIN  JOHN  : 

We  got  here  safe — my  worthy  wife  and  me — 

And  took  a  tent  here  in  the  woods  contigious  to  the  sea; 

We've  harvested  such  means  of  grace  as  growed  within  our  reach — 

We've  been  to  several  meetings  here,  and  heard  the  Bishop  preach ; 

And  everything  went  easy  like  until  we  took  a  whim— 

My  wife  and  I — one  breezy  day,  to  take  an  ocean  swim. 

We  shouldn't  have  ventured  on't,  I  think,  if  Sister  Sunnyhopes 
Hadn't  urged  us  over  and  again,  and  said  she  knew  "the  ropes," 
And  told  how  soothing  it  would  be  "in  ocean  rills  to  lave," 
And  "  sport  within  the  bounding  surf,"  and  "  ride  the  crested  wave ;"' 
And  so  we  went  along  with  her — my  timid  wife  and  me — 
Two  inland  noodles,  for  our  first  acquaintance  with  the  sea. 

They  put  me  in  a  work-day  rig,  as  usually  is  done — 

A  warnpus  and  short  overalls  all  sewed  up  into  one. 

I  had  to  pull  and  tug  and  shrink  to  make  the  thing  go  'round 

(You  are  aware  my  peaceful  weight  will  crowd  three  hundred  pound).. 

They  took  my  wig  and  laid  it  up — to  keep  it  dry,  they  said— 

And  strapped  a  straw-stack  of  a  hat  on  my  devoted  head. 

They  put  my  wife  into  a  frock  too  short  by  full  a  third: 
'Twas  somewhat  in  the  Bloomer  style— I  told  her  'twas  absurd! 


io8 


City  Ballads. 


You  know  she's  rather  long  and  slim — somewhat  my  opposite— 
And  clothes  that  was  not  made  for  her  is  likely  not  to  fit ; 
But  as  we  was  we  vent'red  in — my  timid  wife  and  me — 
And  formed  our  first  acquaintance  with  the  inconsistent  sea. 

Miss  Sunnyhopes  she  wraded  out  a-looking  nice  and  sweet 
(She'd  had  her   dress   made    to    the   store,  and  trimmed  from  head  to 
feet) ; 


And  I  went  next,  and  grabbed  their  rope  just  as  she  told  me  to, 
And  "Wife  came  third,  a-looking  scared,  scarce  knowing  what  to  do. 
Then  Sister  Sunnyhopes  a  smile  of  virgin  sweetness  gave, 
And  said,  "Now  watch  your   chance,  and  jump  —  here  comes  a  lovely 
wave !" 

I  must  have  jumped,  I  rather  think,  the  wrong  time  of  the  moon; 
At  any  rate  the  "lovely  wave"  occurred  to  me  too  soon! 
It  took  me  sudden,  with  a  rude  and  unexpected  shock; 
I'd  rather  meet  the  stoutest  pair  of  horns  in  all  my  flock! 


Water. 

And  then  to  top  the  circus  out,  and  make  the  scene  more  fine, 
I  tried  to  kick  this  "lovely  wave,"  and  let  right  go  the  line. 

On  county  fairs  and  'lection  days,  in  walking  through  a  crowd, 
I'm  rather  firm  to  jostle  'gainst — perhaps  it  makes  me  proud  ; 


109 


;TWO    INLAND    NOODLES,   FOR    OUR    FIRST    ACQUAINTANCE    WITH    THE    SEA." 


But  if  it  does,  that  wave  just  preached  how  sure-ness  never  pays, 
And  seemed  to  say,  "How  small  is  man,  no  odds  how  much  he  weighs 
It  kicked  and  cuffed  me  all  about,  in  spite  of  right  or  law, 
With  all  the  qualities  they  give  an  average  mother-in-law! 

And  then  it  set  me  on  the  bank,  quite  thankful  for  my  life, 
And  looking  'round  I  give  a  gaze  to  find  my  faithful  wife; 
But  she  had  kind  o'  cut  this  wave  with  all  the  edge  she  had, 
And  stood  a-looking  'round  for  me,  uncommon  moist  and  sad  ; 
While  Sister  Sunnyhopes  with  smiles  was  looking  sweet  and  gay, 
A-floating  on  her  dainty  back  some  several  rods  away ! 


no 


City  Ballads. 


She  looked  so  newish  pretty  there — (she  knowed  it,  too,  the  elf !)- 
The  crowd  was  all  admiring  her,  and  so  was  I  myself; 


And  while  I  once  more  grasped  the  line,  beside  my  wife  of  truth, 
My  eyes  would  rove  to  Sister  S. — her  beauty  and  her  youth  ; 


When  all  at  once  a  brindle  wave,  uncommon  broad  and  deep, 
Came  thrashing  down  on  Wife  and  me,  and  flopped  us  in  a  heap ! 


Water. 


in 


Heels  over  head — all  in  a  bunch — my  wife  across  of  me, 
And  I  on  some  misguided  folks  who  happened  there  to  be^ 
My  hat  untied  and  floated  off,  and  left  my  bald  head  bare- 
When  I  got  out,  if  I'd  have  spoke,  'twould  warmed  up  all  the  air! 


"WE   VOTED    THAT   WE'D    HAD    ENOUGH.' 


1 2  City  Ballads. 

We  drank  'bout  two-thirds  of  the  sea — my  gasping  wife  arid  I — 
While  Sister  S.  still  floated  soft,  a-gazing  at  the  sky ! 

We  voted  that  we'd  had  enough,  and  got  right  out  the  way 
Before  another  wave  arrived,  and  bid  the  sea  good-day. 
We  looked  as  like  two  drownded  rats  as  ever  such  was  called, 
With  one  of  them  a  dumbed  old  fool  and  most  completely  bald. 
But,  like  a  woman  true  she  says — my  shivering  wife  to  me — 
"We  will  not  mind;  there's  others  here  looks  just  as  bad  as  we." 

Now,  Sister  Sunnyhopes,  by'm-by,  came  back  into  our  tent, 
As  sleek  or  sleeker  than  before,  and  asked  us  "When  we  went?" 
Said  I,  "My  dear  good  Sister  S.,  please  do  not  now  pretend 
You  did  not  see  our  voyage  through,  and  mark  its  doleful  end. 
If  you  would  play  the  mermaid  fair,  why  such  I'd  have  you  be ; 
But  we're  too  old  to  take  that  part — my  faithful  wife  and  me; 

"  Some  folks  may  be  who  ocean  waves  are  fitted  to  command, 

But  we've  concluded  we  was  built  expressly  for  the  land. 

And  when  I  want  amusement  for  an  uncompleted  day, 

I  guess  I'll  go  and  take  it  in  some  good  old-fashioned  way, 

And  will  not  stand  upon  my  head  'fore  all  the  folks  that's  there, 

And  wildly  wave  my  dumbed  old  feet  in  all  the  neighboring  air!'1 


VICE. 

[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

SEPTEMBER  10,  18 — . 

AH  me!  it  makes  a  sinner  wondrous  blue, 

To  see  so  many  other  sinners  too ! 

When  I  rake  over  all  my  faults,  and  then 

Notice  the  same,  or  worse,  in  other  men, 

It  makes  me  very  much  surprised  and  sad, 

That  Heaven  should  see  Earth  turning  out  so  bad! 

Yice,  vice,  vice,  vice !     The  country  }s  mean  enough, 
And  has  some  villains  that  are  pretty  rough ; 
But  in  this  town,  where  art  and  nature  both 
Are  shoved  into  their  very  greatest  growth, 
And  where  the  utmost  of  all  things  is  found, 
The  Devil  has  his  best  men  on  the  ground, 
And  gives  them  weapons  meeting  his  own  views, 
And  all  the  ammunition  they  can  use ! 

Vice,  vice,  vice,  vice !     I  never  had  been  led 

To  think  that  Evil  had  so  long  a  head! 

I've  seen  more  ingenuity  displayed 

In  one  crime,  than  'twould  take  to  learn  a  trade. 

Such  cute  inventions  Sin  will  take  in  charge : 

Old  Satan's  patent-office  must  be  large ! 

And  yet,  for  all  their  craft,  in  time  how  brief 
How  many  of  these  rascals  come  to  grief! 
For  though  within  them  cunning  may  abound, 
The  plain-clothed  Truth  is  always  standing  round, 
Or  following  rogues  through  every  land  and  clime5 
And  gets  them,  if  you'll  only  give  him  time. 

8 


1 4  City  Ballads. 

I  don't  believe — as  some  good  people  say — 
The  Devil  leads  men  on  from  day  to  day, 
And  takes  them  to  a  rock,  and,  first  they  know> 
Pitches  them  off  into  some  gulf  below ; 
Or  baits  them  into  different  traps,  and  then 
Doesn't  try  at  all  to  get  them  out  again  : 
I  think  he'd  like  to  keep  them,  safe  and  sound, 
Doing  his  nasty  work  the  whole  year  round ; 
And  when  a  rogue  fails  up  and  comes  to  grief, 
It  hurts  his  brimstone-clothed  but  helpless  chief! 

These  thoughts  limped  past  my  saddened  mind  to-day, 

As  through  State's  prison  I  pursued  my  way, 

Led  round  by  one  who  didn't  seem  to  be  knowing 

What  melancholy  pictures  he  was  showing! 

Those  walls  and  guards,  that  all  escape  opposed ; 

Those  thick,  iron  doors — it  thundered  when  they  closed ; 

The  cells — each  one  a  closet  full  of  gloom : 

I'd  just  as  soon  sleep  in  a  metal  tomb !  * 

The  hard-faced  men  who  worked  away  (no  doubt, 

For  fear  of  hard-faced  men  that  stood  about), 

Wearing  that  garb  of  stripes  a  free  man  loathes, 

As  if  Law  whipped  them — even  with  their  clothes ; 

The  way  they  glance  up  at  you  from  within 

Their  drooping  eyelids,  hard  with  grief  or  sin, 

Wondering,  as  they  gaze  upon  you  so, 

If  you  are  not  some  one  they  used  to  know ; 

The  ghosts  you  feel,  that  creep  'round,  all  the  time. 

Among  these  men  who've  shaken  hands  with  crime; 

The  mournful  hope  that  some  are  toiling  here 

Whose  innocence  in  heaven  is  proved  out  clear : 

All  these  things  to  my  inmost  spirit  talked, 

As  through  those  regions  dark  I  slowly  walked ; 

And  when  the  front  door  closed  behind  me — free — 

The  fresh  air  seemed  like  heaven  itself  to  me! 

*And  yet  'twas  quite  affecting,  I  declare, 
How  some  had  ornaments  up,  even  there  ! 
Not  crime  itself,  or  sad  misfortune's  smart 
Can  crush  all  sense  of  beauty  from  the  heart  1 


Vice.  1 1 5 

I  recollect  once  getting  sick  with  pain, 
When  sitting  near  a  sheriff,  on  the  train, 

Who  had  a  young  man  with  him — not  of  age 

Whom  he  was  taking  to  this  stone-bound  cage. 
The  poor  boy  talked  to  him  with  drooping  head, 
And  these  are  something  like  the  words  he  said : 


[THE   BOY   CONVICT'S   STORY.] 

I'd  rather  sit  here,  Mr.  Sheriff — up  near  to  the  end  of  the  car; 

We  won't  do  so  much  advertising  if  we  stay  in  the  seat  where  we  are. 

That  sweet  little  dude  saw  the  bracelets  that  you  on  my  wrists  have 

bestowed, 
And    tells    the    new    passengers    promptly    you're    "taking    me    over 

the   road." 

I've  had  a  well-patronized  trial — the  neighbors  all  know  of  my  fall; 
But  when  I  get  out  among  strangers  I'm  sensitive-like,  after  all. 

For  I  was  a  lad  of  good  prospects,  some  three  or  four  summers  ago— 
There  wasn't  any  boy  in  our  township  who  made  a  more  promising 

show ! 

I  learned  all  of  Solomon's  proverbs,  and  took  in  their  goodness  and  worth, 
Till  I  felt  like  a  virtue-hooped  barrel,  chock-full  of  the  salt  of  the  earth. 
And  this  precious  picnic  of  sorrow  would  likely  enough  have  been  saved,, 
If  I  had  had  less  of  a  heart,  sir,  or  home  had  contained  what  it  craved. 

For  the  time  when  a  boy  is  in  danger  of  walking  a  little  bit  wild, 
Is  when  he's  too  young  to  be  married — too  old  to  be  known  as  a  child ; 
A  bird  in  the  lonely  grass  thickets,  just  out  of  the  parent  tree  thrown,    • 
Too  large  to  be  kept  in  the  old  nest — too  small  to  have  one  of  his  own  ; 
When,  desolate  'mid  his  companions,  his  soul  is  a  stake  to  be  won ; 
'Tis  then  that  the  Devil  stands  ready  to  get  a  good  chance  to  catch  on ! 

Oh,  yes !  I'd  a  good  enough  home,  sir,  so  far  as  the  house  was  concerned  : 
My  parents  were  first-class  providers — I  ate  full  as  much  as  I  earned. 
My  clothes  were  all  built  of  good  timber,  and  fit  every  day  to  be  seen ; 
There  wasn't  any  lock  on  the  pantry — my  bedroom  was  tidy  and  clean  ; 


n6  City  Ballads. 

And  taking  the  home  up  and  down,  sir,  I'd  more  than  an  average  part, 
With  one  quite  important  exception  —  there  ivasrft  any  room  for  my 
heart. 

The  house   couldn't  have  been  any  colder,  with   snow-drifts  in  every 

room ! 

The  house  needn't  have  been  any  darker  to  make  a  respectable  tomb ! 
I  used  to  stop  short  on  the  door-step,  and  brace  up  a  minute  or  more, 
And  bid  a  good-bye  to  the  sunshine,  before  I  would  open  the  door ; 
I  used  to  feed  daily  on  icebergs — take  in  all  the  freeze  I  could  hold — 
Then  go  out  and  warm  in  the  sunshine,  because  my  poor  heart  was  so 

cold! 

And   hadn't  I  a  father   and  mother?     Oh   yes!   just   as   good   as   they 

make — 

Too  good,  I  have  often  suspected  (though  maybe  that  last's  a  mistake). 
But  they'd  travelled  so  long  and  so  steady  the  way  to  Perfection's  abode, 
They  hadn't  any  feeling  for  fellows  who  could  not  as  yet  find  the  road ; 
And  so,  till  some  far  advanced  mile-post  on  goodness's  pike  I  could  win, 
They  thought  of  me,  not  as  their  own  child,  but  as  one  of  the  children 

of  sin. 

And   hadn't  I  brothers  and  sisters  ?     Oh  yes !  till  they  somewhat   had 

grown ; 
Then,  shivering,  they  went  off  and  left  me  to  stand  the  cold  weather 

alone. 

For  I  had  the  luck  to  be  youngest — the  last  on  the  family  page, 
The  one  to  prop  up  the  old  roof -tree — the  staff  of  my  parents'  old  age ; 
Who  well  understood  all  the  uses  to  which  a  mere  staff  is  applied ; 
They  used  me  whenever  convenient — then  carelessly  threw  me  aside! 

And  hadn't  I  any  associates  ?     Oh  yes !  I  had  friends,  more  or  less, 
But  seldom  I  asked  them  to  visit  our  house  with  the   slightest  success ; 
Whenever  the  project  was   mentioned,  they'd  somehow  look  blue  like 

and  chill, 

And  mention  another  engagement  they  felt  it  their  duty  to  fill ; 
For — now  I  am  only  a  convict,  there's  no  harm  in  telling  the  truth — 
My  home  was  a  fearful  wet  blanket  to  blood  that  was  seasoned  with 

youth ! 


Vice.  1 1 7 

Not  one  blessed  thing  that  was  cheerful ;  no  festivals,  frolics,  or  games ; 
No  novels  of  any  description — 'twas  wicked  to  mention  their  names! 
My  story-books  suddenly  vanished,  my  checker-boards  never  would  keep, 
No  newspaper   came   through  our   doorway  unless  it  was  first  put  to 

sleep ! 

And  as  for  love — well,  that  old  song,  sir,  is  very  melodious  and  fine, 
With  "No  place  like  home"  in  the  chorus  —  I  hope  there  ain't  many 

like  mine! 

And   so,   soon    my  body  got   hating   a   place   which   my   soul   couldn't 

abide, 

And  Pleasure  was  all  the  time  smiling,  and  motioning  me  to  her  side; 
And  when  I  start  out  on  a  journey,  I'm  likely  to  go  it  by  leaps, 
For  good  or  for  bad,  I'm  no  half-way — I'm  one  or  the  other  for  keeps. 
My  wild  oats  flew  thicker  and  faster  —  I  reaped  the   same  crop  that  I 

sowed, 
And  now  I  am  going  to  market — I'm  taking  it  over  the  road! 

Yes,  it  grieved  my  good  father  and  mother  to  see  me  so  sadly  astray, 
They  deeply  regretted  my  downfall — in  a  strictly  respectable  way ; 
They  gave  me  some  more  admonition,  and  sent  me  off  full  of  advice, 
And  wondered  to  see  such  a  villain  from  parents  so  good  and  precise. 
Indeed  I  have  often  conjectured,  wrhen  full  of  neglect  and  its  smarts, 
I  must  have  been  left  on  the  door-step  of  their  uncongenial  hearts ! 

My  home  in  the  prison  is  waiting — it  opens  up  clear  to  my  sight; 
Hard  work  and  no  pay-day  a- coming,  a  close  cell  to  sleep  in  at  night. 
And  there  I  must  lie  sad  and  lonesome,  with  more  tribulation  than  rest, 
And  wake  in  the  morning  with  sorrow  sharp  sticking  like  steel  in  my 

breast ; 
But   maybe   the   strain   and  the  trouble  won't  quite   so  much  o'er  me 

prevail, 
As  'twould  be  to  some  one  who  wasn't  brought  up  in  a  kind  of  a  jail ! 

You've  got  a  good  home,  Mr.  Sheriff,  with  everything  cosy  and  nice, 
And  'tisn't  for  a  wrist-shackled  convict  to  offer  you  words  of  advice; 
But  this  I  must  say,  of  all  places  your  children  may  visit  or  call, 
Make  HOME  the  most  pleasant  and  happy  —  the   sweetest  and  best  of 
them  all; 


n8  City  Ballads. 

For  the  Devil  won't  offer  a  dollar  to  have  his  world-chances  improved, 
When  Home  is  turned  into   a   side-show,  with  half  the  attractions  re 
moved  ! 

Don't  think  I'm  too  bitter,  good  sheriff — I  like  you :  you've  been  very 

good; 

I'm  ever  and  ever  so  grateful — would  pay  it  all  back  if  I  could. 
I  didn't  mean  to  slander  my  parents — I've  nothing  against  their  good 

name, 

A.nd  as  for  my  unrighteous  actions,  it's  mostly  myself  that's  to  blame ; 
Still,  if  I'd  had  a  home — •  But  the  prison  is  only  one  station  ahead — 
I'm  done,  Mr.  Sheriff;  forget  me,  but  don't  forget  what  I  have  said! 


SEPTEMBER  15,  18 — 

Yice,  vice,  vice,  vice ! — and  'tisn't  all  clear  and  free, 
"Where  any  one  can  take  a  look  and  see, 
And  then  decide,  immediate,  on  the  spot, 
Whether  he'll  buy  his  soul-farm  there  or  not; 
It's  scattered  round  about  so  'mongst  the  good, 
Folks  can't  entirely  shun  it  when  they  would. 
Much  better  to  escape  it  we'd  be  able, 
If  'twas  obliged  to  carry  'round  a  label 
(It  always  does,  some  time  before  it  ages, 
But  not  enough  so  in  its  early  stages). 

My  mind  was  led  around  about  this  way, 
By  a  well-dressed  young  man  I  met  to-day, 
Who  strove  to  twist  some  money  out  of  me, 
But  had,  instead,  a  first-class  lecture  free. 

My  cousin,  Abdiel  Stebbins,  large  and  good, 
Inclined  to  do  even  better  than  he  should, 
And  with  a  heart  that  gets  him  into  scrapes 
Of  a  most  strange  variety  of  shapes, 
But  who,  before  they've  run  a  fatal  course, 
Always  gets  out  of  them  by  sheer  main  force, 
Wrote  me  two  letters,  several  years  ago, 
Which  I  have  kept,  with  no  intent  to  show, 


Vice.  1 1 9 


But  simply  to  read  over  now  and  then 
As  part  of  my  text-book  entitled  "Men." 

I  think  I'll  get  my  cousin's  wail  by  letter, 
And  paste  it  here  where  I  can  find  it  better. 


[FARMER  STEBBINS   ON  THE  BOWERY.] 

DEAK  COUSIN  JOHN  : 

We  got  here  safe — my  worthy  wife  an'  me, 

An'  then  I  looked  the  village  through  to  see  what  I  could  see : 

I  rode  upon  the  cur'us  track  with  stations  all  up-stairs ; 

I  walked  through  Wall  Street  all  its  length,  an'  saw  no  bulls  or  bears ; 

I  patronized  a  red-nosed  chap  with  manners  very  queer, 

Who  "hadn't  had  a  thing  to  eat  for  somethin'  like  a  year; 

I  saw  the  road  commissioners  to  work  upon  a  bridge 

A  million  times  as  large  as  that  we  built  at  Tompkins'  Ridge — 

(I'm  told  that  they  are  makin'  it,  though  maybe  that's  all  fun, 

To  use  the  coming  century,  an'  hope  to  get  it  done) — 

When  who  should  up  an'  grasp  my  hand,  with  face  of  genuine  joy, 

But  Cousin  Jeroboam  Jones,  my  cousin's  oldest  boy ! 

I  had  not  seen  him  years  an'  years — no  wonder  he  looked  strange ; 

His  face  an'  form  in  some  respects  had  undergone  a  change; 

But  then  there  wasn't  a  chance  of  doubt  that  that  was  him,  because, 

If  not,  how  should  he  ever  know  that  I  was  who  I  was  ? 

We  brushed  our  old  acquaintance  up,  an'  soon  was  at  our  ease, 

A-wanderin'  all  about  the  place,  as  cozy  as  you  please. 

It's  nicer  far,  in  foreign  towns,  than  'tis  to  be  alone, 

To  walk  with  one  whose  blood  proceeds  from  sources  near  your  own ; 

A  sim'lar  temp'rature  of  heart,  a  sort  of  family  ease, 

Enables  you  to  work  your  tongue  as  lib'ral  as  you  please ; 

And  so  I  found  myself  quite  soon  uncommonly  at  home, 

Describin'  all  my  business  through  to  Cousin  Jerobo'm. 


120  City  Ballads. 

He  listened  very  docile  like,  an'  hadn't  much  to  say, 

But  what  he  did  was  vent'red  in  a  satisfactory  way ; 

He'd  severed  somewhat  from  his  kin,  an'  sort  o'  lost  the  run, 

But  he  recalled  the  Stebbinses,  when  mentioned,  one  by  one  ; 

An'  takin'  him  inside  an'  out,  our  family  scarcely  owns 

A  relative  more  relishin'  than  Jeroboam  Jones. 

He's  teacher  in  a  Sunday-school,  he  told  me,  by  the  way, 
Which  has  a  room,  above  a  store,  that's  open  every  day. 
"For  if,"  he  says,  "we  come  across  a  child  that  needs  our  care, 
We  cannot  wait  till  Sunday  comes — we  join  'em  then  an'  there. 
An'  if  you  want  to  see  the  way  our  worthy  cause  is  run, 
Come  in  an'  take  a  little  look — our  < social's'  just  begun." 

The  scholars  hadn't  come,  as  yet ;  the  Superintendent,  though, 
Was  sittin'  at  a  table,  like,  an'  bowed  extremely  low ; 
An'  heard  the  praise  on  poor  old  me  my  cousin  had  to  tell, 
An'  said  he  joyed  to  meet  a  friend  of  one  he  loved  so  well ; 
An'  I  talked  back ;  an'  for  a  time  our  converse  did  not  cease — 
A  regular  three-cornered  gush  of  friendship,  love,  an'  peace. 

An'    then    he    showed    me    how  they  run    their   "grab -bags"    an'   all 

such 

(We  have  the  same  at  home,  you  know,  although  not  near  so  much) ; 
An'  then  he  had  some  val'ables  on  numbers  that  you  saw, 
With  figures  correspondin'ly,  in  envelopes,  to  draw ; 
I  gin  him  fifty  cents  to  help  a  cause  I  dearly  hold, 
An'  drew  a  velvet  hymn-book,  with  a  clasp  resemblin'  gold ! 

My  cousin  pressed  my  hand  with  some  congratulatin'  jokes, 
And  said,  "  Ah  me !  the  Stebbinses  was  always  lucky  folks ! 
But  after  all,  their  shrewdness  is  the  thing  that  lets  them  win." 
(Which   made   me   proud,  though  I  didn't   see   just  where   the   shrewd 

came  in. 

But  buy  in'  a  five-dollar  book  at  that  unheard-of  price, 
An'  heipin'  of  the  cause  meanwhile,  was  unsuspected  nice.) 

Whereat  the  Superintendent  said,  "  You're  lucky,  I  allow ; 

I'll  have  to  charge  five  dollars  for  a  chance  to  draw  here  now." 


"TO   MAKE    FOUR   HUNDRED    DOLLARS   CLEAR,   AN'    HKLP   THE   CHILDREN   TOO." 


Vice. 


Whereat  my  cousin  Jeroboam  remarked,  "  If  'tisn't  wrong, 
I'll  buy  a  draw  for  Cousin  Steb,  to  help  the  cause  along." 
I  shook  my  head,  but  he  would  do't ;  an'  sure  as  I'm  alive, 
I  drawed  a  good  ten-dollar  bill  for  Cousin  Jones's  five ! 

Whereat  the  Superintendent  said,  "  You're  lucky  men,  I  vow ; 
A  hundred  dollars  I  must  charge  for  every  drawing  now;" 
An'  fingerin'  the  envelopes,  one  opened — just  a  grain — 
And  I  discerned  the  number  11,  uncommon  black  and  plain; 


123 


JL 


"WE  COME  'THIN  PART  OF  ONE  OF  IT.' 


An'  on  the  other  number  11  by  glancin'  I  could  see 

Five  good  crisp  hundr'd-dollar  bills  a-waitin'  there  for  me ! 

To  make  four  hundred  dollars  clear,  an'  help  the  children  too, 

Was  somethin'  that  would  surely  seem  desirable  to  do ; 

With  an  unfailin'  eagle  eye,  a  heart  that  swelled  with  hope, 

I  watched,  an'  saw  the  very  place  he  put  that  envelope ; 

I  winked  at  Cousin  Jeroboam,  I  counted  out  the  cash, 

An'  drawed,  an'  had  that  card  revealed  almost  as  quick  as  flash ! 


124  City  Ballads. 

Oh,  sakes! — the  second  figure  1  had  what  I  hadn't  seen, 
A  tail  that  made  a  7  of  it !  'twas  Number  IT ! 
An'  on  them  figures  on  the  hoard  there  nothin'  was,  in  fact, 
Except  a  little  pamphlet  like — an  anti-gamblin'  tract ; 
Which  hadn't  any  money  wuth,  an'  won't  be  good  for  much. 
Except  to  keep  my  older  boys  from  playin'  cards  an'  such. 

Now  Cousin  Jeroboam  Jones  was  buried  in  surprise, 
An'  walked  a  half  a  mile  with  me,  an'  helped  philosophize ; 
An'  says,  "  You  come  some  other  day — we'll  try  that  thing  agin : 
"We  come  'thin  part  of  one  of  it — the  next  time  we  shall  win." 
Then,  nearin'  to  a  corner,  he  took  kindly  leave  o'  me, 
Because  of  some  new  scholars  there  that  he  must  go  an'  see. 

I  give  you  this  experience,  John,  but  please  don't  tell  it  now; 
Let  Tompkins  take  the  chestnut  horse,  an'  sell  the  brindle  cow ; 
An'  gather  up  what  cash  besides  I  have  a-lyin'  loose, 
An'  send  the  whole  of  it  to  me  for  my  immediate  use. 
Do  everything  concerned  in  this,  in  soft,  secretive  tones ; 
Direct  it  to  New  York,  in  care  of  Jeroboam  Jones. 

A.  S. 

A  few  days,  and  the  following  one  arrived, 

Which  shows  Sin's  triumph  sometimes  is  short-lived  : 


[FARMER  STEBBINS  AHEAD.] 
DEAR  COUSIN  JOHN  : 

I'm  very  glad  you  sent  that  money  through, 

By  Cousin  Seth,  an'  not  by  mail,  as  I  requested  you ! 

The  fam'ly's  just  so  much  ahead :  'twere  best  it  never  came, 

If  Jeroboam  Jones  had  twined  his  fingers  'round  the  same. 

For  that  young  man  has  principles  fit  only  to  abhor, 

And  isn't  the  kind  of  relative  that  I  was  lookin'  for! 

My  sakes !  Millennium's  nowhere  near,  when  men  so  false  can  be 
As  to  equivocate  themselves  into  my  family  tree ; 


Vice. 


125 


An'  on  its  honest  branches  graft  the  shoots  of  their  design, 

An'  make  me  think  they're  good  because  they're  relatives  of  mine ; 

While  under  those  fraternal  smiles  a  robber's  frown  is  hid ; 

But  that's  the  inappropriate  thing  that  Jeroboam  did ! 

"When  Cousin  Seth  the  tavern  reached  whose  clerk  o'ershadows  me, 
lie  cried,  "Where  is  my  long-lost  son  I've  come  so  far  to  see?" 
An'  so,  to  fill  that  father's  heart  with  resurrected  joy, 
I  twisted  'round  with  him  a  bit,  to  try  an'  find  the  boy ; 
An'  comin'  where  I  had  the  luck  that  hymn-book  for  to  win, 
I  opened  quietly  the  door,  an'  both  of  us  went  in. 

The  Superintendent  still  was  there ;  he  gave  a  little  start, 

But  welcomed  us,  apparently,  with  overflowin'  heart ; 

An'  told  us  all  about  the  work,  an'  how  'twas  gettin'  on, 

An'  how  much  money  those  who  gave  unto  the  cause  had  won ; 

But  Cousin  Seth,  though  much  impressed  with  what  he  heard  an'  saw, 

Said  he  didn't  fix  the  envelopes,  an'  b'lieved  he  wouldn't  draw. 

Just  then  the  door  was  opened  quick,  an'  with  a  solemn  grin, 
Young  Jeroboam  Jones  appeared,  an'  sidled  softly  in  ; 
An'  with  him  was  an  older  man,  who  looked  enough  like  me 
To've  been  a  reg'lar  Stebbins  too,  so  far  as  one  could  see ; 
But  slappin'  Seth  upon  the  back,  I  said,  "My  duty's  done, 
For  this  is  Jeroboam  Jones,  your  long-lost  oldest  son  !" 

"  My  '  long-lost  oldest  son  ?'  "  said  he  :  "  he's  'bout  as  nmch  my  son 

As  you  are. the  beloved  babe  of  Gen'ral  Washington! 

It  strikes  me  that  my  married  life  was  very  much  amiss, 

If  I'm  responsible  for  such  a  sneakin'  face  as  this ! 

He's  blinded  you  by  his  supposed  relationship  to  me : 

He's  no  one  I  have  ever  seen,  or  ever  want  to  see !" 

As  when  a  fog  above  a  field  the  sudden  breezes  tore, 
You  spied  a  thousand  things  you  did  not  even  miss  before, 
So  all  the  facts  of  this  affair,  as  clear  as  summer  skies, 
Straightway  arranged  themselves  before  my  reconstructed  eyes : 
That  these  were  not  veracious  men ;  an'  this  no  Sunday-school ; 
An'  naught  was  what  it  seemed,  except  one  old  bald-headed  fool ! 


126  City  Ballads. 

1  held  those  two  deceivers  out,  with  unassisted  strength, 
An'  by  the  collar  shook  each  one  to  my  arm's  farthest  length ; 
They  gasped  an'  danced  an'  skipped  around,  without  a  word  to  say— 
They  "put  their  heads  together"  in  a  new  an'  painful  way. 
"Due  ninety  dollars  fifty  cents,  an'  not  a  penny  less!" 
I  shouted;  "an'  I'll  send  you  back  your  hymn-book  by  express!" 

When  finally  in  my  discourse  a  breathin'  pause  occurred, 
The  Superintendent  counted  out  the  cash,  without  a  word ; 
Which,  with  a  manner  dignified,  I  coldly  repossessed, 
An',  still  retainin'  Jeroboam,  that  scamp  I  thus  addressed : 
"  An'  so  you  are  the  bogus  friend  and  relative,  so  free 
To  spend  his  time  a-makin'  fools  of  poor  old  men  like  me. 

"  I'm  Supervisor  of  the  town  where  I  have  lived  so  long : 
There  ain't  a  man  in  all  that  part  will  say  I've  done  him  wrong ; 
There  ain't  a  man  will  claim  but  what  I'm  ordinary  keen ; 
But  when  I  plant  myself  in  town,  I  grow  exceedin'  green. 
An'  any  kind-expressioned  man,  who  acts  a  civil  part, 
Can  always  find  my  soul  to  home,  an'  house-room  in  my  heart. 

"  It's  sad  for  such  a  smile  as  yours  to  find  so  mean  a  fate  ; 
An'  there's  some  good  in  you — at  least  enough  to  use  for  bait ; 
Without  some  kindness  in  your  heart,  you  couldn't  have  landed  me ; 
An'  as  to  how  you've  used  your  gifts,  just  pause  a  bit  an'  see. 
I've  gambled,  by  you're  callin'  it  a  charitable  name, 
And  my  self-valuation  sunk  with  unaccustomed  shame. 

"  I've  done  what  I'd  have  whipped  my  boys  for  even  lookin'  at ; 
An'  don't  suppose  but  what  I  own  part  of  the  blame  for  that ; 
I  thought  I  saw  a  chance  to  make  five  dollars  out  o'  one, 
Which,  with  strict  justice  all  around,  is  very  seldom  done. 
But  up  to  that  outrageous  point,  remember,  I  was  led 
By  your  assumed  relationship,  an'  several  things  you  said. 

"  Do  you  reflect,  young  man,  upon  the  fruit  you're  growin'  to  ? 
There's  prison  gates  a-waitin'  now  to  stand  in  front  of  you. 
There's  grief  of  unexpected  kinds,  an'  every  sort  of  shame, 
To  send  you  some  time  from  this  world  much  poorer  than  you  came. 


Vice. 

Your  guilty  head  you  hang  before  us  sinners  standin'  by : 

What  angle  do  you  s'pose  'twould  take  'mongst  angels  in  the  sky? 


129 


"  There's    hope    e'en    on    the   death  -  bed    for   a   square,    straightforward 

thief, 
But  Judases  have  always  come  to  most  peculiar  grief; 


''HE    MAKES    HIMSELF   A    BIGGER    FOOL    THAN    ALL   THE    FOOLS    HE    MAKES." 


The  Lord  has  pity,  I  suppose,  for  errin'  men  an'  weak, 

But  no  good  satisfactory  place  in  which  to  put  a  sneak. 

An'  when  a  man  wins  men's  esteem,  then  thrives  by  their  mistakes, 

He  makes  himself  a  bigger  fool  than  all  the  fools  he  makes." 


130  City  Ballads. 

Then  my  adopted  relative  I  seated  in  a  chair. 
With  amply  necessary  help,  an'  sev'ral  pounds  to  spare. 
Then  Seth  an'  I  with  dignity  bade  both  the  scamps  good-day, 
Advisin'  them  to  gain  their  bread  in  some  dissimilar  way  ; 
An'  as  we  thundered  dowrn  the  stairs,  with  heavy  rural  tread, 
I  felt  that  I'd  at  last  come  out  some  several  rods  ahead. 

A.  S. 


\JFrom  Arthur  Selwyrfs  Note -book J\ 

[THE   "  SLUGGING  "-MATCH.] 

"  A  first-class  professional  fight !" 

I'm  really  doing  the  town ! 
There  were  thousands  on  thousands  to-night 

To  see  a  man  knock  a  man  down. 
Two  dollars  I  willingly  (?)  paid 

To  view  all  this  muscle  and  brawn ; 
'Twas  rather  too  much,  I'm  afraid, 

Or  seemed  so,  the  minute  'twas  gone. 


And  yet  'tis  a  study  to  see 

The  rage  gladiatorial  of  Rome 
And  grim  Spanish  bull-baiting  glee 

Adopt  an  American  home! 
That  blood-thirsty,  murderous  spite 

Men  loudly  condemn — and  possess ! 
Besieged  New  York  City  last  night, 

"With  first-class  financial  success ! 


Hands  gloved — to  comply  with  the  law ; 

Gloves  hard — to  comply  with  the  crowd ; 
Fists  savage  as  murder  could  draw ; 

Cheers  heavy  and  fervent  and  loud. 


Vice.  I3I 


Stern  hisses,  and  shoutings  of  "Woman!" 
When  either  too  tender  they  found ; 

Tremendous  applause  when  a  foeman 

Dropped,  more  than  half  dead,  on  the  ground. 


'Twas  the  soul's  blackest  hell-woven  fibre, 

All  thrilling  intensely  and  fast ; 
The  curse  of  the  Tagus  and  Tiber 

Arrived  in  New  York  Bay  at  last ! 
And  victor  and  vanquished,  I  learn, 

Came  off  with  more  glittering  spoil 
Than  teacher  or  preacher  could  earn 

In  years  of  the  hardest  of  toil. 


A  spectacle  pleasing  and  bright, 

Fall  many  good  people  delighting — 
So  many  good  men  love  a  fight, 

When  somebody  else  does  the  fighting ! 
And  "  'tis  shameful !"  we  mildly  agree, 

And  shout  our  complainings  afar ; 
But  the  facts  are  no  worse  than  are  we : 

They  show  to  us  just  what  we  are ! 


VIRTUE. 

[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar^] 

OCTOBER  1,  18 — . 

WIND  in  the  south-west ;   weather  fit  to  stay ; 
A  sweet,  old-fashioned,  Indian -summer  day— 
When  Heaven  and  Earth  both  seem  to  look  at  yon 
Through  hair  of  gold   and  misty  eyes  of  blue. 
My  wife  said,  as  we  talked  of  it  together, 
It  seemed  as  if  some  of  our  old  farm  weather 
Had  got  tired  of  the  sober  hills  of  brown, 
Hitched  up  a  cloud,  and  driven  into  town ! 

We  went  to  church,  and  heard  a  sermon  preached, 
Which  all  the  way  from  Earth  to  Heaven  reached, 
And  lifted  us  up  toward  the  town  divine, 
Till  we  could  almost  see  the  steeples  shine, 
And  hear  the  mighty  chariots  as  they  rolled 
Along  the  massive  turnpikes  made  of  gold. 
We  had  some  music,  so  sweet-lipped  and  true 
It  made  me  think  of  every  flower  I  knew; 
And  when,  with  benediction,  the  old  pastor 
Said  "  Good-bye "  for  himself,  but  not  his  master, 
It  put  my  resolution  to  the  rack, 
To  head  my  poor  old  tears,  and  drive  them  back ! 

We  tried  to  come  straight  out,  as  Christians  should, 
And  bring  away  all  of  it  that  we  could ; 
But  there  were  certain  persons  there  to-day, 
Who,  after  church  was  over,  clogged  the  way, 
And,  standing  'round,  with  worldly  nods  and  smiles, 
Held  a  week-day  reception  in  the  aisles. 


Virtue. 

Now,  when  one's  mind  falls  in  celestial  frame, 
He  wants  to  get  home  safely  with  the  same ; 
And  hates  through  jostling  gossipers  to  walk, 
And  stumble  'gainst  the  smallest  kinds  of  talk, 
Intended,  by  some  power,  his  mind  to  bring 
Down  out  of  Heaven  to  every  worldly  thing — 
From  office,  and  good  methods  to   ensure  it, 
To  rheumatism,  and  proper  means  to  cure  it. 


[From  Arthur  Sehvyn's  Note-book.] 

These  are  the  spires  that  were  gleaming 
All  through  my  juvenile  dreaming ; 
Here  the  high  belfries  are  singing : 
Gold  invitations  they're  winging, 
Asking  man   through  the  charmed  portal, 
Where  he  is  once  more  immortal ; 
Where  he  may  hide  from  his  cares, 
Under  a  shelter  of  prayers. 
Why  do  these  halls,  high  and  broad, 
Under  the  same  constant  God, 
Vary  in  structure  and  style- 
Differ,  from  chancel  to  aisle? 
Why  forms  and  creeds  so  diverse? 
Why  is  my  blessing  your  curse  ? 
Pondering  here  on  the  street, 
This  is  one  reason  I  meet: 

Man's  brain  is  devious  and  strange— 
Differs,  in  form  and  in  range ; 
So  that  God's  fervid  love -sun, 
Falling  the  same  on  each  one, 
Differs  in  form  and  in  hue, 
(Not  the  less  precious  or  true)! 
Body  and  brain  and  heart- 
Temple  of  infinite  art — 


134  City  Ballads. 

You  had  no  power  to  control 
Hues  of  your  windows  of  soul ! 


\_From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

OCTOBER  5,  18 — . 

Sweet  virtue,  virtue,  virtue! — what  a  start 
You've  got  here   in  this  city's  feverish  heart ! 
There  isn't  a  thing  to  do  that's  square  and  right, 
But  some  one's  here  to  teach  it,  day  and  night; 
No  soothing  balm  soul  may  from  soul  demand, 
But  some  one  has  it  ready  to  his  hand! 

And  then  the  churches — thick  and  rich  of  yield, 
As  corn -shocks  in  a  new-made  prairie  field, 
Where  any  one  the  golden  fruit  can  find 
All  ready  cooked  to  suit  his  heart  and  mind ; 
Great  brick :  and -mortar  prayers!  that  never  cease, 
And  costing  fifty  good-sized  farms  apiece 
(Much  too  expensive,  it  might  well  be  said, 
If  bodies  only  need  be  clothed  and  fed). 

And  then  the  missions — regular  district  schools, 
Where  transient  men  are  taught  eternal  rules; 
Then  the  Salvation  Army  girls  and  boys, 
Who  season  their  religion  up  with  noise, 
And,  when  they  get  to  Heaven,  won't  have  the  power 
To  help  keep  silent  even  half  an  hour; 
But  who  take  ragged  wretches  every  day, 
Haul  them  into  the  straight  and  narrow  way, 
Strip  them  of  vain  conceit  soon  as  they  show  it, 
And  get  them  saved — almost  before  they  know  it! 
It's  something  good  to  make  these  people  good, 
Who  never  go  to  church,  and  never  would! 

God  bless  each  woman,  man,  and  child,  I  say, 
That  leads  His  creatures  in  the  heavenly  way, 


Virtue. 

Whether  they  work  by  still,  old-fashioned  means, 
Or  march  with  drums  and  flags  and  tambourines ! 


135 


Then  there's  those  men  who've  crept  and  crawled  as  low 

As  even  Satan  cared  to  have  them  go ; 

Have  marched  through  strong  iron  doors   in  striped  ranks, 

Have  toiled  where  convict  labor  whirls  and  clanks, 

Have  made  hard  beds  in  cramped  and  lonely  cells, 

Have  sinned  their  way  through  several  different  hells; 

Whose  lives  have  been  so  terribly  amiss 

To  ever  find  worse  worlds  than  they've  made  this; 

Then  groped  out  into  Virtue's  bath  and  sun, 

And  been  washed  up  as  clean  as  any  one, 

And  warmed  up  with  sweet  sunlight  from  above ; 

Till  they  themselves  start  off  on  deeds  of  love, 

And  say  to  men  with  scarred  and  crime-flushed  brow, 

"I've  been  as  bad,  or  worse,  than  you  are  now." 

Whereat  the  wretch  says,  with  dull,  shadowy  bliss, 

"  What !  can  there  be  some  square  way  out  of  this  ?" 

And  maybe  brings  to  pass,  through  Virtue's  schemes, 

Some  of  his  poor  old  mother's  fondest  dreams ! 

Oh  you  who  shout   or  sing  or  chant   or  read — 

Whatever  be  your  name   or  style   or  creed — • 

If  any  one  on  earth  a  plan  has  got 

(Whether  it's  half  as  good  as  yours  or  not) 

To  find  a  gate  into  the  narrow  way, 

And  let  in  others  that  have  gone  astray— 

If  there's  a  single  chance  to  mortals  given 

By  which  to  slip  poor  mortals  into  Heaven, 

For  Heaven's  sake  do  not  frown   in  righteous  wrath, 

Or  throw  a  scornful  word  into  their  path ! 

But  interfere  with  help  in  their  affairs, 

And  push  them  with  your  money  and  your  prayers! 

For  Pain  is  Pain,  and  God  to  see  it  loath, 

In  this  strange  world  and  in  the  next  one,  both ; 

And  he  who  saves  his  fellow-men  from  pain, 

Is  God's  hired  man,  and  does  not  toil  in  vain? 


City  Ballads. 

But  I'm  reminded,  by  the  bell  for  dinner, 

That  I'm  no  preacher,  but  a  poor  old  sinner, 

Unable  even  to  follow  my  own  view, 

Much  less  to  counsel  others  how  to  do. 

I  can't  even  eat — when  I  come  right  down  to  it, 

Without  a  bell  to  tell  me  when  to  do  it. 

So  I  will  cork  my  sermon,  snub  my  muse, 

And  go  down-stairs  with  Wife,  and  learn  the  news. 


[From  Arthur  Selwyrfs  Note-book.'] 
[MORE  WAYS  THAN  ONE.] 

I  was  present,  one  day, 

Where  both  layman  and  priest 
Worshipped  God  in  a  way 

That  was  startling,  at  least : 
Over  thirty  in  place 

On  the  stage,  in  a  row, 
As  is  often  the  case 

At  a  minstrelsy  show; 
In  a  uniform  clad 

Was  each  one  of  them  seen, 
And  a  banjo  they  had, 

And  a  loud  tambourine. 
And  they  sung  and  they  shouted 

Their  spasmodic  joys, 
Just  as  if  they  ne'er  doubted 

That  God  loved  a  noise. 

And  their  phrases,  though  all 
Not  deficient  in  points, 

A  grammarian  would  call 
Eather  weak  in  the  joints; 


Virtue.  1  ~~ 


And  the  aspirate  sound 

Was  adroitly  misused, 
And  The  Language  all  round, 

Was  assaulted  and  bruised ; 
While  the  tunes  that  they  sung 

In  bewildering  throngs, 
Had  been  married,  when  young, 

To  hilarious  songs ; 
And  the  folks  in  that  place, 

Who  this  loud  racket  made, 
Were  not  bounded  by  race 

Or  condition   or  shade. 


Now  I  love  my  own  meeting, 

My  own  cosy  pew, 
While  mentally  greeting 

Friends  quietly  true; 
And  the  Gospel  dispensed 

With  a  dignified  grace, 
Born  of  reason  clear-sensed 

Arid  a  faith  firm  of  place. 
I  love  the  trained  voices 

That  float  down  the  aisles, 
Till  the  whole  church  rejoices 

With  God's  sweetest  smiles. 
Have  no  sneer  understood 

For  the  rest,  when  I  say 
I  had  rather  get  good 

In  a  civilized  way. 

So  this  meeting  had  grate,d 

Somewhat  on  my  heart, 
And  ere  long  I  had  waited, 

I  thought  to  depart. 
But  a  young  man  arose, 

Looking  sin-drenched  and  grim? 
As  if  rain-storms  of  woes 

Had  descended  on  him ; 


City  Ballads. 

No  such  face  you'd  discern 

In  a  leisurely  search, 
If  you  took  a  chance  turn 

Through  a  civilized  church ; 
But  his  words,  though  not  choice. 

To  my  feelings  came  nigh ; 
There  was  growth  in  his  voice, 

There  was  hope  in  his  eye. 

And  he  said,  "I'm  a  lad 

With  a  life  full  of  blame; 
Every  step  has  been  bad, 

Every  hour  was  a  shame. 
And  for  drink  I  would  pawn 

All  within  my  control, 
From  the  clothes  I  had  on, 

To  my  heart  and  my  soul. 
I  have  drank  the  foul  stuff 

In  my  parents'  hot  tears ; 
I  have  done  crime  enough 

For  a  hundred  black  years ; 
But  I  came  to  this  place 

For  the  help  that  I  craved  ; 
I  have  seen  Jesus's  face, 

And  I  know  I  am  saved." 

Then  a  man  rose  to  view, 

When  this  youngster  was  done? 
And  he   said,  "This  is  true; 

That  young  man  is  my  son. 
He  was  drunk  every  day, 

And  such  terror  would  make, 
That  I  spurned  him  away 

From  my  house,  like  a  snake. 
We  have  suffered  the  worst 

That  can  come  from  heart-fears; 
He  is  sober  the  first 

I  have  seen  him  for  years. 


Virtue. 

I  am  full  of  such  joy 

As  I  never  yet  knew ; 
And  now,  Robert,  my  boy, 

Home  is  open  to  you ! 

"  You  may  go  home  with  me — 

Or  may  run  on  before ; 
You've  a  glittering  key 

That  will  open  the  door ! 
Your  mother  is  there, 

Praying  for  you  e'en  now ; 
There  is  snow  in  her  hair, 

There  is  pain  on  her  brow. 
And  when  you  have  kissed  her 

The  old-fashioned  way, 
There's  a  brother  and  sister 

Who've  longed  for  this  day; 
And  whatever  can  befriend  you 

On  earth,  shall  be  done ; 
May  God's  blessing  attend  you, 

My  son — oh,  my  son  !" 

Then  the  banjo  struck  in, 

And  the  tambourine  jingled ; 
There  rose  such  a  din 

That  my  blood  fairly  tingled. 
The  vocalists  screamed 

Till  quite  red  in  the  face  ; 
But  somehow  it  all  seemed 

Not  at  all  out  of  place! 
Now  denouements  immense 

Do  not  somehow  take  hold, 
Or  dramatic  events 

Reach  my  heart,  as  of  old; 
But  my  smiles  could  not  hide 

The  fast-gathering  tears, 
And  I  cheered,  laughed,  and  cried3 

As  I  had  not  for  years! 


139 


140 


City  Ballads. 

And  I  thought,  "Not  amiss 

Are  this  tumult  and  shout: 
Folks  who  save  men  like  this 

Know  what  they  are  about. 
You  who  fight  with  God's   sword 

For  the  good  of  your  kind-- 
You  can  never  afford 

To  leave  these  men  behind. 
If  these  women  I've  seen, 

Should  be  pelted  or  cursed, 
I  would  step  in  between— 

I  would  take  the  blow  first. 
They  who  draw  souls  above 

From  the  depths  lowest  down, 
Will  not  fail  of  God's  love 

Or  to  shine  in  His  crown." 


THE    SALVATION    ARMY. 


Virtue. 


141 


[From  Arthur  Selwyn's  Note-book.] 
[THE  MARCH   OF  THE    CHILDREN.] 

List  to  the  sound  of  the  drumming! 
Gaily  the  children   are  coming;    . 
Sweet  as  the  smile  of  a  fairy, 
Fresh  as  the  blossoms  they  carry. 
Pride  of  the  parents  who  love  them, 
Pure  as  the  azure  above  them, 
Free  as  the  winds  that  caress  them, 
Bright  as  the  sunbeams  that  bless  them. 


142 


City  Ballads. 


List  to  the  voice  -  echoes  ringing! 
Sweeter  than  birds  they  are  singing; 
Thoughts  that  to  virtue  invite  them, 
Wed  unto  airs  that  delight  them. 
Truths  that  their   future  will  cherish, 
Soul-planted,  never  to  perish  ! 
Only  to  senses  completer, 
Heaven's  choicest  music  were  sweeter! 


Virtue,  unconscious  and  pretty, 
Walks  through  the  streets  of  the  city; 
See  the  gay  bannerets  flying, 
Mottoes  and  titles  undying; 
Truths  dearly  hallowed  and  olden, 
Braided  in  strands  that  are  golden 
Words  for  the  spirit's  desiring, 
Sentences  sweetly  inspiring  ! 


When,  in  a  voice  of  caressing, 
Christ  gave  the  children  His  blessing, 
'Twas  not  for  one  generation — 
But  for  each  epoch  and  nation. 
So  through  the  present  it 

lingers, 
Shed  from  His  bountiful 

fingers ; 

So  unto  these  it  is  given — 
Types  of  the  angels  in 

Heaven, 


TRAVEL. 

[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

NOVEMBER  1,  18 — . 

IT'S  quite  the  thing  to  "travel"  nowadays 

(Although  I  do  not  think  it  always  pays), 

And  see  if  distant  ground  in  general  looks 

As  mentioned  in  the  papers  and  in  books. 

I  find,  in  sifting  what  few  facts  I  know, 

Three  ways  of  realizing  things  are  so : 

First,  when  you're  told  them  in  such  trusty  shape 

That  square  belief  isn't  easy  to  escape. 

(There's  lots  of  people — this  town  wouldn't  hold  them- 

"Who  don't  know  much  excepting  what  is  told  them.) 

Second,  what  you've  put  on  some  mental  shelf, 

By  having  seen  and  understood  yourself. 

(How  well  we  know  things  witnessed,  largely  lies 

On  how  much  brain  there  is  behind  our  eyes.) 

The  third  way  is  the  surest  and  the  best 

(Though  sometimes  painful,  it  must  be  confessed) : 

It's  where  a  truth  has  whipped  the  earth  with  you. 

Until  you  feel,  from  head  to  foot,  'tis  true. 

I  think,  sometimes,  when  all  is  said  and  done, 

Feeling  is  all  the  senses  joined  in  one. 

We're  going  to  travel ! — not  so  very  far 
As  our  new  friends,  the  Fitzcumnoodles,  are, 
"Who  cannot  read  their  social  titles  clear 
Unless  they  ride  twelve  thousand  miles  a  year, 


144  City  Ballads. 

(I  told  them,  with  a  philosophic  smile, 

That  travelling  shouldn't  be  measured  by  the  mile.) 

But  we  shall  take  a  little  trip,  to-morrow, 

With  some  spare  time  that  wife's  contrived  to  borrow. 

To  where  George  Washington  laid  out  a  town 

That  several  centuries  won't  see  tumbled  down ! 

A  "city  which,  with  all  the  sneaking  sinners 

That  come  down  there  to  steal  their  daily  dinners, 

And  all  the  human  insects  hovering  nigh, 

Such  as  swarm  thick  wherever  good  things  lie, 

And  spite  of  all  the  bad  weeds  growing  round, 

Has  always  some  good  folks  upon  the  ground, 

And  will  be  head-piece  of  the   greatest  nation 

That  ever  helped  spruce  up  the  Lord's  plantation. 

The  Fitzcumnoodles,  through  their  daughter  Maudj 

Inform  us  that  we  ought  to  go  abroad ; 

The  Clancdenancies,  we  have  lately  learned, 

From  an  extended  trip  have  just  returned; 

And  so  my  eldest  daughter,  Isabel, 

Who  knows  Miss  Clanc,  etc.,  very  well, 

Called  on  her  in  the  progress  of  a  walk, 

And  had  a  pleasant  little  travel-talk; 

And  after  coming  home  misspent  her  time 

In  putting  what  she  heard  there  into  rhyme, 

And — lost  it — not  by  accident,  I  fear ; 

I'll  paste  the  "conversation"  right  in  here: 


HER  TOUR. 

Yes,  we've  been  travelling,  my  dear, 

Three  months,  or  such  a  matter, 
And  it's  a  blessing  to  get  clear 

Of  all  the  clash  and  clatter! 
Ah!  when  I  look  the  guide-book  through. 

And  see  each  queer  place  in  there, 
'Tis  hard  to  make  it  seem  quite  true 

That  I  myself  have  been  there ! 


Travel.  145 

Our  voyage?     Oh,  of  course  'twas  gay— 

Delightful !  splendid  !  glorious  ! 
We  spurned  the  shore — we  sped  away— 

We  rode  the  waves  victorious. 
The  first  mate's  mustache  was  so  grand! 

The  ocean  sweet,  though  stormy 
(I  was  so   sick  I  could  not  stand, 

But  papa  saw  it  for  me). 

At  Queenstown  we  saw  land  once  more- 
Ground  never  looked  so  pretty ! 

We  took  a  steam- car  near  the  shore 
For  some  light-sounding  city. 

A  very  ordinary  stone 

We  had  to  kiss  at  Blarney; 

The  beggars  wouldn't  let  us  alone 
That  half-day  at  Killarney ! 

The  Giants'  Causeway?     'Tis  arranged 

With  no  regard  to  science ; 
It  must  somehow  of  late  have   changed— 

At  least  we  saw  no  giants. 
Some  little  funny  scrubs  of  folks 

Sold  pictures,  and  were  merry; 
The  men  were  full  of  yarns  and  jokes, 

The  women  barefoot — very. 

Old  Scotland?     Yes,  all  in  our  power 

We  did  there  to  be  thorough; 
We  stopped  in  Glasgow^  one  whole  hour, 

Then  straight  to  "  Edinfonn^A." 
At  Abbotsford  we  made  a  stay 

Of  half  an  hour  precisely. 
(The  ruins  all  along  the  way 

Were  ruined  very  nicely.) 

We  "did"  a  mountain  in  the  rain, 

And  left  the  others  undone, 
Then  took  the  "  Flying  Scotchman "  train, 

And  came  by  night  to  London. 
10 


146  City  Ballads. 

Long  tunnels  somewhere  on  the  line 
Made  sound  and  darkness  deeper; 

No ;  English  scenery  is  not  fine, 
Viewed  from  a  Pullman  sleeper. 

Oh,  Paris  !  Paris  !  Paris  !  'tis 

No  wonder,  dear,  that  you  go 
So  far  into  the  ecstasies 

About  that  Victor  Hugo ! 
He  paints  the  city,  high  and  low, 

With  faithful  pen  and  ready 
(I  think,  my  dear,  I  ought  to  know — 

We  drove  there  two  hours  steady). 

Through  Switzerland  by  train.     Yes,  I 

Enjoyed  it,  in  a  measure; 
But  still  the  mountains  are  too  high 

To  see  with  any  pleasure. 
Their  tops — they  made  my  neck  quite  stiff, 

Just  stretching  up  to  view  them ; 
And  folks  are  very  foolish  if 

They  clamber  clear  up  to  them ! 

Eome,  Venice,  Naples,  and  the  Rhine? 

We  did  them — do  not  doubt  it ; 
This  guide-book  here  is  very  fine — 

'Twill  tell  you  all  about  it. 
We've  saved  up  Asia  till  next  year, 

If  business  gets  unravelled; 
What !  going  ?     Come  again ;  and,  dear, 

I  will  not  seem  so  travelled. 


WASHINGTON,  November  3,  18 — 

We're  travelling,  and  we're  here!  and  what  a  town! 
I  own,  it  picks  me  up  and  sets  me  down ! 


Travel.  147 

I  thought  I  had  some  idea  of  the  place, 

And  what  its   corporation  lines  embrace  ; 

I'd  read  the  county  papers  every  week, 

"Which  seldom  failed  "  From  Washington "  to  speak ; 

I'd  travelled  through  these  streets  by  photograph, 

And,  with  Imagination  for  a  staff, 

Had  wandered  round,  in  little  trips  disjointed, 

Even  where  the  artist's  brass  gun  has  not  pointed  ,* 

And  so  I  said,  "Though  I  wouldn't  like  to  miss  it, 

'Twill  be  a  good  deal  like  a  second  visit." 

But  'tisn't  an  easy  perpetrated  scheme 

To  prophesy  how  anything  will  seem. 

This  city's  new  to  me — I  do  not  doubt  it — 

As  if  I'd  never  heard  a  word  about  it ! 

There's  something  in  these  white- clothed  buildings'  glare, 

And  something  even  in  the  very  air, 

And  in  the  great  variety  of  faces, 

Bearing  the  ear-marks  of  a  thousand  places, 

And  in  that  monument  that  reaches  high — 

The  farthest  stone  has  climbed  into  the  sky, 

And  in  that  dome,  whose  kingly  size  and  height 

Contrive,  where'er  you  are,  to  keep  in  sight — 

From  these,  and  several  hundred  other  things 

This  nation's  lead-horse  city  at  you  flings, 

You  feel  as  if  you'd  stepped,  through  many  a  mile, 

Into  another  planet  for  a  while ! 

But  men  too  weary  to  hold  up  their  heads 

Are  apt  to  bless  the  man*  who  first  made  beds ; 

Then,  having  found  one,  and  reclined  within  it, 

Forget  about  him  in  just  half  a  minute. 

So  I'll  let  Morpheus  (who  is  at  me  winking) 

Do  the  remainder  of  this  evening's  thinking. 


*  Or  woman — let  due  praise  to  her  be  paid ; 
A  bed  is  never  made  until  'tis  made. 


148  City  Ballads. 

[From  Arthur  Selwyn's  Note-book.] 
AT  THE   SUMMIT   OF  THE  WASHINGTON  MONUMENT. 

Look  North !     A  white-clad  city  fills 

This  valley  to  its  sloping  hills; 

Here  gleams  the  modest  house  of  white, 

The  statesman's  longed-for,  dizzy  height. 

Beyond,  a  pledge  of  love  to  one 

Who  in  two  lands  was  Freedom's  son — 

The  holder  of  an  endless  debt — 

Our  nation's  brother,  Lafayette. 

But  yonder  lines  of  costly  homes 

And  bristling  spires  and  swelling  domes, 

And  far  away  the  spreading  farms 

Where  thrift  displays   substantial  charms, 

And  hamlets  creeping  out  of  sight, 

And  cities  full  of  wealth  and  might, 

Must  own  the  fatherhood  of  him 

Whose  glory  Time  can  never  dim. 

All  who  can  reckon  Freedom's  worth 

Would  write  across  this  whole  broad  earth, 

With  pen  dipped  in  the  golden  sun, 

The  magic  name  of  Washington ! 

If  we  can  keep  the  rules  he  gave 

This  land  he  more  than  fought  to  save, 

Our  future  fame  will  glisten  forth 

Grand  as  the  winter-lighted  North! 


Look  South ! — where,  in  its  coat  of  gray, 
The  broad  Potomac  creeps  away, 
And  seeks  the  blue  of  distant  skies ; 
But  pauses  where  the  great  chief  lies 
Within  his  humble,  hallowed  tomb, 
Amid  Mount  Yernon's  deathless  bloom. 
As  glides  this  stream,  great  corse,  past  thee, 
First  to  the  bay,  and  then  the  sea, 


MINNESOTA 

OREC.OH 

KANSAS 
WEST  VIRGINIA 

NEVADA 
NEBRASKA 
COLORADO 

DI5T.OFCOLUMBIA 

.UTAH 

NEW  MEXICO 

WASHINGTON 

DAKOTA 

ARIZONA 

IDAHO 


j  FIRST  IN  WAR. 

X        FIRST  IN:  PEACE, 

or  HIS  C 


FROM   TITE    MONUMENT. 


Travel. 

So  flowed  thy  life  to  rural  rest, 

Ere  thou  wast  Heaven's  eternal  guest. 

Oh  strong,  high  man!  whose  patriot  heart 

Climbed  from  all  common  greeds  apart ; 

To  whom  men's  selfish  ways  were  small, 

As  from  this  tower,  serenely  tall 

(Built  that  all  years  thy  fame  may  know), 

Men  look  while  creeping  there  below ! 

How  weak  was  power  to  thy  clear  gaze, 

Builder  of  nations  joined  in  one, 

Kindler  of  splendors  still  to  blaze, 

Finder  of  glories  just  begun ! 

Live  on,  great  sleeper !  as  this  stone, 

Highest  from  earth  that  man  has  known, 

So  shall  be  ranked  thy  solid  wrorth, 

Highest  of  heroes  on  the  earth ! 

Happy,  secure,  and  cherished  name, 

Love  is  the  pillar  of  thy  fame; 

Thy  praise  comes  from  each  patriot's  mouth, 

Warm  as  the  sunbeams  of  the  South ! 


Look  East !     The  Nation's  castle  walls 

Spread  out  in  massive  beauty  now; 

Their  lofty  dome  and  pictured  halls 

In  homage  to  this  summit  bow. 

Oh,  well  that  from  these  palaced  lands 

The  marble  spire  obeisance  win; 

But  for  the  one  for  whom  it  stands, 

This  chieftain-town  had  never  been! 

Yon  plot,  so  full  of  brain  and  will, 

Had  staid  a  bleak  and  lonely  hill ! 

If  at  five  thousand  dizzy  feet 

This  shaft  the  whirling  clouds  could  meet, 

Until  our  gaze  for  miles,  might  be, 

To  the  uncrowned  but  royal  sea, 

'Twere  not  too  much  of  honor  then, 

To  grant  our  crownless  king  of  men. 


152  City  Ballads. 


You  who  the  Nation's  laws  indite, 
Look  to  this  summit's  honest  white, 
Where,  throned  on  walls  that  must  endure, 
Pure  fame  entreats  you  to  be  pure ; 
Until  our  glory  be  increased, 
Like  sunbeams  from  the  dazzling  East ! 


Look  West !     There  lie  the  hilly  fields 

Where  brothers  fought  through  days  of  dread^ 

Where  mothers  brooded  o'er  their  dead, 

And  soil  the  thrift  of  carnage  yields ; 

Where  cannon  roared  and  bullets  sung, 

Till  every  hillock  had  a  tongue. 

O  Nation  being  and  to  be, 

That  silent  blood  speaks  loud  to  thee! 

God  grant,  if  e'er  our  guns  again 

Must  tear  the  quivering  flesh  of  men, 

The  leaden  hail-storm  may  be  pressed 

Against  some  foul  invader's  breast — 

Against  some  alien  tribe  and  zone — 

And  not,  as  then,  to  kill  our  own ! 

May  all  the  fruitful  strifes  of  peace 

The  thrilling  bonds  of  love  increase; 

May  yonder  orb,  in  his  quick  change 

From  mountain  range  to  mountain  range, 

From  valley  to  rich  valley  o'er, 

From  river  shore  to  river  shore, 

From  wave  to  wave — may  yonder  sun 

One  Nation  count,  and  only  one; 

Until  he  dips  his  fiery  crest 

Into  the  ocean  of  the  West ! 


Look  up !     The  phantom  clouds  of  gray — 
Grim  ghosts  of  storm — have  passed  away; 
The  veiling  of  the  sky  is  done, 
And  downward  shines  the  welcome  sun. 


Travel.  153 


He  kindles  grand  and  peaceful  fires 
Upon  the  city's  domes  and  spires ; 
He  sends  his  strong  magnetic  glow 
Through  yonder  moving  throngs  below. 
Thou  art,  O  sky  serene  and  clear, 
A  symbol  of  our  country  here ! 
What  land  in  all  this  world  of  pain, 
This  earth,  where  millions  toil  in  vain, 
Where  famine,  pestilence,  and  strife 
Play  careless  games  with  human  life, 
Where  Superstition  clouds  the  soul, 
And  heartless  brains  sad  hearts  control — 
What  country,  framed  in  frost  or  flowers. 
Can  see  so  clear  a  sky  as  ours  ? 
Peace  throws  her  mantle,  broad  and  free, 
O'er  all  who  peaceable  will  be ; 
Plenty  her  sheltering  flag  doth  wave 
O'er  those  who  will  but  toil  and  save ; 
Enlightenment  each  day  shall  rise 
For  all  who  do  not  cloud  their  eyes; 
While  Liberty  from  every  race 
Has  made  this  land  a  refuge -place. 
Let  our  deep  thanks  forever  fly 
Far  as  the  reaches  of  the  sky! 


\From  Farmer  Harrington's  Note-book.] 

NOVEMBER  5,  18 — . 

Went  to  Mount  Yernon ;  and  I  wouldn't  have  lost 
That  trip,  for  fifteen  hundred  times  its  cost ! 
Those  farm-lands  sleeping  in  the  autumn  sun; 
The  house  HE  slept  in  when  his  work  was  done; 
The  trees  he  planted  with  his  own  brave  hand, 
That  set  out  Freedom's  trees  all  o'er  the  land: 
The  Immble  tomb  he  lies  in,  which — like  me— 
Pilgrims  from  all  the  world  have  come  to  see : 
These  look  up  in  one's  eyes  and  sadly  smile, 
And  preach  a  funeral  sermon  all  the  while ! 


1 54  City  Ballads. 

Even  the  river-boats  upon  their  way 
Toll  bells,  as  if  he'd  died  that  very  day ! 
And  through  it  all  this  precept  may  be  traced: 
The  noblest  men  are  simplest  in  their  taste. 

I've  read  how  grand,  Napoleon's  tomb  is  made, 

And  all  the  surface-honors  to  him  paid ; 

But  I  don't  think  the  people  that  come  there 

Bring  any  heartfelt  sympathy  to  spare ; 

While  every  true-brained  patriot,  night  and  morn, 

Thanks  God  for  letting  Washington  be  born! 

While  I  was  standing,  hat  off,  at  the  tomb, 

A  youth  approached,  three-quarters  made  of  bloom ; 

And  with  his  hat  perched  on  his  close-sheared  head. 

And  smoking  a  small  white  cigar,  he  said : 

"  Sirrh,  would  you  kindly  just  enlighten  me 

As  to  where  Gawge  cut  down  the  cherry-tree?" 

Said  I,  "  Young  man,  just  please  at  once  disgorge 

The  fool-idea  of  calling  that  man  '  George ;' 

His  body,  mind,  and  soul  were  firmly  set 

Higher,  no  doubt,  than  you  will  ever  get. 

He  isn't  the  man,  though  lying  dead,  'tis  true, 

When  friends  are  near,  to  be  half -named  by  you. 

Take  off  your  hat,  and  bow;  if  you  rebel, 

I'll  get  a  cherry  switch  and  trounce  you  wrell." 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment  in  surprise, 

And  mutiny  stood  foremost  in  his  eyes; 

But  I  was  quite  indignant,  and  could  feel 

The 'blood  of  Bunker  Hill  all  through  me  steal. 

I  said,  "  One  minute  more  will  be  allowed ;" 

The  fine  young  man  took  off  his  hat,  and  bowed. 

Irreverence  is  the  fashion,  nowadays, 
And  shows  itself  in  good  and  evil  ways; 
Its  mission  is  legitimate  and  clear 
In  cases  where  there's  nothing  to  revere ; 


Travel.  155 

But  they  who  use  it  must  be  judgment-fixed, 
And  not  get  reverend  and  unreverend  mixed. 


\From  Arthur  Selwyn's  Note-book.] 

Through  these  broad  streets  do  I  fly- 
Furlongs  and  miles  I  defy, 
Till  the  "magnificent  distance" 
Vanishes  out  of  existence. 
Let  me  with  pencil  prolong 
Strains  of  the  Bicycler's  Song: 


[THE   SILENT  WHEEL.] 

Good -morning,  good  Pedestrian — I'm  glad  to  see  you  out; 
The  day  is  full  of  healthf ulness,  the  birds  are  all  about ; 
There  is  a  quiet  breeziness  in  all  the  pleasant  air — 
I  hope  this  happy  exercise  will  drive  away  your  care. 

For  I  am  a  pedestrian — 

A  very  good  pedestrian — 

And  all  the  glowing  benefit  of  walking  I  can  share ; 
Although  I  tread  the  atmosphere,  and  do  not  touch  the  ground, 
I  greet  you  as  a  brother,  sir,  wherever  you  are  bound. 
But  my  impatient  lady-love  in  yonder  tow^n  doth  wait ; 
I  wish  you  better  company,  and  strike  a  swifter  gait. 

Good-morning,  good  Equestrian — a  noble  steed  you  ride ; 

I  do  not  see  in  to  frighten  him,  so  here  is  by  your  side. 

It  is  a  feast  of  happiness  to  smoothly  bound  along, 

With  sturdy  muscles  under  you,  and  footing  swift  and  strong. 

For  I  am  an  equestrian — 

A  very  fair  equestrian— 

With  bugle  blast  of  melody  and  unassuming  song; 
And  all  the  thrilling  ecstacy  of  horsemanship  I  feel, 
Although  the  nag  I  ride  upon  was  bred  of  burnished  steel. 
But  his  impatience  urges  me  to  swifter  gait  than  you, 

And  so  I  wish  you  pleasure,  sir,  and  bid  a  kind  adieu. 


156  City  Ballads. 

Good -morning,  Mr.  Racer,  you've  a  trotter  that  is  fine; 
I  never  would  disparage  him,  or  say  too  much  of  mine ; 
Your  horse  is  full  of  mettle,  sir,  and  bravely  draws  his  load  ; 
It  must  be  pure  deliciousness  to  speed  him  on  the  road. 

But  I  am  quite  a  racing  man — 

A  modest,  humble  racing  man — 

Though  small  is  my  solicitude  upon  the  turf  bestowed ; 
And  if  you  have  anxiety  to  try  a  little  race, 
I'll  undertake,  with  courtesy,  to  give  you  second  place ; 
But  if  the  first  you  take  from  me,  and  it  be  fairly  earned, 
I'll  hope  that  on  some  future  day  the  tables  may  be  turned. 

Good -morning,  Mr.  Carriageer,  you  have  an  easy  ride; 
Those  cushions  are  luxurious,  and  pleasantly  you  glide ! 
'Tis  very  good  and  fortunate,  if  one  be  tired  or  ill, 
To  calmly  call  his  carriage  out,  and  travel  as  he  will. 

But  I,  sir,  keep  my  carriage,  too — 

A  very  pleasant  carriage,  too — 

Though  it  is  not  the  easy  one  that  your  desire  would  fill ; 
It  carries  me  in  comfort  over  many  a  pleasant  mile, 
And  all  my  best  acquaintances  are  suited  with  its  style. 
'Tis  with  a  blithe  economy  establishments  are  run, 
With  driver,  footman,  passenger,  and  horses — all  in  one ! 

Good -morning,  fellow  Wheelmen;  here's  a  warm,  fraternal  hand. 
As  with  a  rush  of  victory  we  sweep  across  the  land ! 
If  some  may  be  dissatisfied  to  view  the  way  we  ride, 
We  only  wish  their  majesties  could  wander  by  our  side ! 

For  we  are  good  philanthropists — 

Unqualified  philanthropists — 

And  would  not  have  our  happiness  to  any  one  denied. 
We  claim  a  great  utility  that  daily  must  increase ; 
We  claim  for  inactivity  a  bright  and  grand  release ; 
A  constant  mental,  physical,  and  moral  help  we  feel, 
Which  makes  us  turn  enthusiasts,  and  bless  the  silent  wheel ! 


Travel.  1 5  7 

[From  Farmer  Harrington's   Calendar^] 

NOVEMBER  20,  18 — . 

It's  quite  a  show,  and  strikes  me  a  good  deal — 
How  many  ride  around  here  on  a  wheel ; 
The  streets  are  graded  very  smooth  and  nice, 
And  make  this  town  the  wheelman's  paradise. 
A  brother -farmer — neighbor,  once,  to  me — - 
Who's  down  here,  like  myself,  to  hear  and  see, 
Told  me,  last  night,  before  we  "  doused  the  glim," 
How  a  young  wheel-chap  got  the  start  of  him. 
'Twould  skip  my  memory,  maybe,  if  I'd  let  it ; 
I'll  put  it  down  here  so  I  sha'n't  forget  it. 


[FARMER  AND  WHEEL;   OR,  THE  NEW  LOCHINVAR.J 

I. 

I  was  hoein'  in  my  corn-field,  on  a  spring  day,  just  at  noon, 

An'  a  hearkin'  in  my  stomach  for  the  dinner-trumpet's  tune, 

An'  reflecting  when  my  daughter  should  be  married,  'twould  be  best 

She  should  take  Josiah  Baker's  son,  who  jines  me  on  the  west, 

An'  consolidate  our  acres  into  one  immense  abode, 

When  my  hired  man  says,  "By  ginger,  look  a-yender  down  the  road!1' 

"  Well,"  I  says,  "  my  goodness  gracious !  things  is  rather  overgrown, 
When  a  buggy-wheel  gets  loosened,  an'  goes  runnin'  'round  alone." 
But  my  man  he  says,  "  By  mustard !"  (as  the  critter  nearer  came) 
"Don't  you  see  that  there's  a  feller  on  a-straddle  of  the  same?" 
An'  it  was  as  nice  a  shaver  as  you'd  see  'most  any  day, 
Who  was  travellin'  through  the  country  in  that  onexpected  way. 

He  was  rather  young  an'  han'some,  an'  as  smilin'  as  you  please, 

An'  his  pants  they  signed  a  contract  with  his  stockin's  at  the  knees ; 

An'  he  had  a  pair  o'  treadles  some'at  underneath  his  seat, 

So's  to  run  the  queer  contraption,  by  a-workin'  of  his  feet ; 

An'  the  sun  descended  on  it,  in  a  manner  warm  an'  bright ; 

'Twas  as  sing'lar  as  a  circus,  an'  an  interestin'  sight. 


158  City  Ballads. 

When,  as  fate  was  bound  to  have  it,  on  that  quite  partic'lar  morn, 
There  was  somethin'  was  the  matter  with  my  folks's  dinner-horn ; 
An'  the  hired  girl,  when  she  tried  to,  couldn't  blow  it  very  well, 
For  to  call  us  in  to  dinner — so  she  sent  my  daughter  Belle : 
Who  came  up  just  at  that  minute — nice  a  girl  as  could  be  found ; 
An'  this  fellow  looked  her  over,  an'  came  smashin'  to  the  ground. 

Smash  to  bang  he  came  a-floppin' — wheel  an'  stockin's,  pants  an'  all; 
An'  I  run  to  him,  remarkin',  "  You  have  caught  a  dreadful  fall." 
An'  my  daughter  hovered  round  him,  tremblin'  with  her  she  alarms, 
Lookin'  just  as  if  she  would  like  to  some' at  take  him  in  her  arms ; 
But  he  glanced  up,  faintly  smilin',  an'  he  gaspin'ly  replied, 
"  I  am  only  hurt  intern'lly "  (which  I  s'pose  he  meant  inside). 

An'  we  packed  him  on  the  stone-boat,  an'  then  drove  him  to  the  house, 

An'  he  lay  there  on  the  sofa,  still  an'  quiet  as  a  mouse ; 

An'  he  would  not  have  a  doctor;  but  he  called  my  daughter  Belle, 

An'  then  laughed  an'  chatted  with  her,  like  a  person  gettin'  well ; 

An'  along  late  in  the  evenin',  I  suppose,  he  went  away; 

For  he  wasn't  there  next  mornin',  an'  Belle  hadn't  a  word  to  say. 

An'  he  left  two  silver  dollars  in  an  easy-noticed  spot, 

For  to  pay  us  for  his  passage  on  the  stone-boat,  like  as  not ; 

An'  'twas  quite  enough  equivalent  for  his  transitory  stay ; 

But  whate'er  he  might  have  left  us,  still  he  carried  more  away; 

For  my  daughter  Belle  grew  absent,  glanced  at  every  sound  she  heard, 

And  Josiah  Baker  junior  couldn't  get  a  civil  word. 


.    II. 

I  was  workin^  in  my  meadow,  on  a  blazin'  summer's  day, 

When  my  son-in-law  by  contract  came  a-runnin'  'cross  the  way, 

An'  remarked,  "It's  been  the  bargain — for  how  long  I  needn't  tell — 

That  these  two  farms  should  be  married — as  should  also  me  an'  Belle; 

An'  how  much  the  indications  indicate  that  that'll  be, 

If  you'll  come  down  here  a  minute,  you  will  have  a  chance  to  see." 

An'  he  led  me  'cross  the  fallow,  underneath  some  picnic  trees, 
Where  my  gal  an5  that  wheel  fellow  sat  as  cosy  as  you  please ; 


Travel.  1 6 1 

An'  she'd  put  some  flowers  an'  ribbons  on  the  wheel,  to  make  a  show, 
An'  they'd  been  a-shakin'  hands  there,  an'  forgotten  to  let  go ; 
An'  she  sort  o'  made  a  chair-back  of  the  fellow's  other  arm, 
With  no  'parent  recollection  of  Josiah  Baker's  farm. 

Then  we  walked  around  front  of  'em,  an'  I  says,  "  Your  very  fine  \ 
But  this  gal  that  you  are  courtin'  is  Josiah's  gal  an'  mine ; 
You're  a  mighty  breechy  critter,  an'  are  trespassin'  all  round ; 
Why,  this  very  grove  you  sit  in  is  Josiah's  father's  ground." 
Then  he  rose  up,  stiff  an'  civil,  an'  helped  Belle  across  the  stile, 
Also  put  the  masheen  over,  with  a  queer  but  quiet  smile; 

An'  he  stood  there,  like  a  colonel,  with  her  tremblin'  on  his  arm, 
An'  remarked,  "  I  beg  your  pardon,  if  I've  done  you  any  harm. 
But  so  far  as  '  trespass '  matters,  I've  relieved  you  of  that  load, 
Since  the  place  I  now  am  standing  is,  I  think,  the  public  road. 
And  this  very  sweet  young  lady,  you  in  one  sense  yours  may  call, 
But  she's  mine,  sir,  in  another — and  Josiah's  not  at  all. 

"  I'll  escort  this  lady  home,  sir,  leave  my  wheel  here  in  your  care, 

And  come  back  in  fifteen  minutes  to  arrange  the  whole  affair. 

And  please  do  not  touch  the  '  cycle ' — 'tis  as  yet  without  a  flaw, 

And  I  do  not  want  a  quarrel  with  my  future  father-in-law; 

If  this  Mr.  Baker  junior  follows  up  his  glances,  though, 

With  his  fingers,  I  will  thrash  him  till  he  thinks  his  cake  is  dough." 

Then  he  left  us  both  suspectin'  that  he'd  rather  got  the  start, 
An'  the  acres  of  the  daddies  seemed  increasin'ly  apart; 
An'  we  didn't  wait  to  see  him ;  but,  with  one  impatient  jerk, 
We  shook  our  heads  in  concert,  an'  went  back  unto  our  work ; 
An'  I  couldn't  help  reflectin' — "  He  is  steady  like,  an'  cool, 
An'  that  wheel  may  be  a  folly,  but  it  didn't  bring  a  fool." 


III. 

I  was  on  my  stoop  a-restin',  on  a  hazy  autumn  day, 
Rather  drowsy  from  a  dinner  that  had  just  been  stowed  away, 
And  regrettin' — when  old  Baker's  an'  my  homestead  jined  in  one, 
That  he  wasn't  to  furnish  daughter,  an'  I  wasn't  to  furnish  son, 

11 


1 62  City  Ballads. 

So's  to  have  my  name  continued,  'stead  of  letting  it  go  down, 
When  Josiah  Baker  junior  came  a  drivin'  home  from  town. 

An'  a  little  ways  behind  him  came  that  wheel  scamp,  ridin'  hard, 
An'  they  both  to  once  alighted,  an'  come  walkin'  through  the  yard  ; 
When,  as  fate  was  bound  to  have  it,  also  came  my  daughter  Belle, 
From  a  visit  in  some  neighbor's,  lookin'  very  sweet  an'  well ; 
An'  they  stood  there  all  together — that  'ere  strange,  dissimilar  three, 
An'  remained  in  one  position — lookin'  steady  down  at  me. 

Then  Josiah  spoke  up  loudly,  in  a  kind  o'  sudden  pet, 

"If  this  gal  an'  I's  to  marry,  it  is  time  the  day  was  set; 

For  that  one-wheel  feller's  always  'round  here  courtin',  on  the  fly, 

An'  they  say  she  rides  out  with  him,  in  the  night-time,  on  the  sly. 

Father'll  give  us  board  an'  victuals,  you  can  give  her  land  an'  dower, 

Wherefore,  if  she  wants  to  have  me,  please  to  set  the  day  an'  hour." 

Then  the  wheel  scamp  spoke  up  quiet,  but  as  if  the  words  he  meant, 
"  /  would  like  to  wed  your   daughter,  an'  have  come  for  your  consent 
She  is  very  dear  to  me,  sir,  when  we  walk  or  when  we  ride, 
And,  I  think,  is  not  unwilling  to  become  my  cherished  bride. 
I  can  give  her  love  and  honor,  and  I  ask  of  you  no  dower ; 
Wherefore,  please  bestow  your  blessing ;  we  have  set  the  day  and  hour." 

Then   I   might   have   told  my  daughter   that   she   now  could  have  the 

floor, 
An'    remarked  that   on  this  question   there  should  be   just  one  speech 

more ; 

But  I  rendered  my  decision  in  a  flame  of  righteous  rage, 
An'  I  shouted,  "  You'd  no  business  for  to  court  or  to  engage  ! 
This  'ere  gal  has  long  been  spoke  for ;  an'  you'll  please  to  clamber  on 
Your  old  hind-wheel  of  a  buggy,  an'  forevermore  be  gone!" 

Then  he  picked  up  Belle  quite  sudden,  an'  made  swiftly  for  the  gate, 
An'  I  formed  a  move  to  stop  'em,  but  was  most  perplexin'  late ; 
lie  had  fixed  a  small  side-saddle  on  his  everlastin'  wheel, 
So  that  she  could  ride  behind  him  (clingin'  'round  him  a  good  deal); 
An'  straight  down  the  Beebe  turnpike,  like  a  pair  o'  birds  they  flew 
Towards  a  preacher's  who  had  married  almost  every  one  he  knew. 


CHASING   THE    BICYCLE. 


Travel.  165 

"  Stop  'em !  head  'em !  chase  'em !  catch  'em !"  I  commanded,  very  vexed  ; 
"  They'll  be  hustlin'  off  our  daughters  on  a  streak  o'  lightnin',  next !" 
An'  we  took  Josiah's  wagon,  an'  his  old  gray  spavined  mare, 
An'  proceeded  for  to  chase  'em,  with  no  extra  time  to  spare ; 
An'  Josiah  whipped  an'  shouted,  it  was  such  a  dismal  pinch, 
An'  kept  just  so  far  behind  'em,  but  we  couldn't  gain  an  inch! 

Down  the  turnpike  road  we  rattled ;  an'  some  fellows  loudly  cried, 
"  Go  it,  Baker,  or  you'll  lose  her !  ten  to  one  upon  the  bride !" 
An'  I  fumed  an'  yelled  an'  whistled,  an'  commanded  them  to  halt, 
An'  the  fact  we  couldn't  catch  'em  wasn't  Josiah  Baker's  fault; 
But  he  murmured,  "I  am  makin'  father's  mare  into  a  wreck, 
Just  to  see  my  gal  a-huggin'  round  another  feller's  neck!" 

An'  they  rushed  into  that  preacher's,  maybe  twenty  rods  ahead, 
An'  before  I  reached  the  altar  all  their  marriage -vows  was  said; 
An'  I  smashed  in  wildly,  just  as  they  was  lettin'  go  o'  han's, 
An'  remarked,  in  tones  of  sternness,  "I  hereby  forbid  the  banns!" 
While  Josiah  Baker  junior  close  behind  me  meekly  came, 
Sayin',  "Were  my  father  present,  he  would  doubtless  do  the  same!" 

But  they  turned  to  me  a-smilin',  an'  she  hangin'  on  his  arm, 

An'  he  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon ;  let  Josiah  have  the  farm. 

We've  accomplished  the  sweet  object  for  which  we  so  long  have  striven, 

And,  as  usual  in  such  cases,  are  prepared  to  be  forgiven." 

An'  the  whole  thing  seemed  so  funny,  when  I  thought  of  it  a  while, 

That  I  looked  'em  both  all  over,  an'  then  blessed  'em  with  a  smile. 

Then  Josiah  Baker  junior  took  his  spavined  mare  for  home, 
An'  'twas  difficult  decidin'  which  indulged  the  most  in  foam ; 
An'  he  said,  "  I'll  drive  alone,  sir,  if  the  same  you  do  not  mind  ; 
An'  your  son  an'  daughter  Wheeler  maybe'll  take  you  up  behind." 
An'  he  yelled,  while  disappearing  with  a  large  smile  on  his  mouth. 
"  I  kin  git  a  gal  whose  father  jines  my  father  on  the  south !" 


IV. 

I  was  workin'  in  my  wood-house  on  a  snowy  winter  day, 

An'  reflectin'  on  a  letter  that  had  lately  come  our  way, 

11* 


1 66  City  Ballads. 

How  that  Belle  had  every  blessin'  that  a  married  gal  could  need, 
An'  had  bought  her  two  twin  daughters  a  small-sized  velocipede, 
When  the  thought  came  stealin'  through  me,  "Well,  so  far  as  I  can  see, 
In  the  line  of  love  an'  lovin',  what's  to  be  is  apt  to  be." 


NOVEMBER  21,  18 — . 

Went  into  Congress  for  a  little  spell, 
Where  everything  seemed  going  pretty  well; 
But  all  through  boyhood's  easy-moulding  day 
I'd  heard  so  much  of  Webster  and  of  Clay, 
That,  though  they  had  been  dead  for  many  a  year, 
I  thought  at  least  by  proxy  they'd  appear. 
It  was  a  disappointment,  I  declare : 
Daniel  or  Henry — neither  one  was  there! 


NEW  YORK,  January  1,  18—. 

Got  back  from  several  cities;  and  it  looks 
As  if  the  things  we've  seen  would  fill  ten  books! 
Some  time  I'll  write  our  wanderings  to  and  fro; 
It's  a  large  job:  I'll  have  to  take  it  slow. 


[From  Arthur  Selwyn's  Note-book.] 
[ONLY  A  BOX.] 

Only  a  box,  secure  and  strong, 
Kough,  and  wooden,  and  six  feet  long, 
Lying  here  in  the  drizzling  rain, 
Waiting  to  take  the  up-bound  train. 

Only  its  owner,  just  inside, 
Cold,  and  livid,  and  glassy-eyed ; 


"  ONLY   A    BOX,   SECURE    AND   STRONG, 
ROUGH    AND   WOODEN.   AND    SIX    FEET    LONG." 


Travel.  1 69 


Little  to  him  if  the  train  be  late! 
Nothing  has  he  to  do  but  wait. 

Only  an  open  grave,  somewhere, 
"Ready  to  close  when  he  gets  there ; 
Turfs  and  grasses  and  flowerets  sweet, 
Ready  to  press  him  'neath  their  feet. 

Only  a  band  of  friends  at  home, 
Waiting  to  see  the  traveller  come ; 
Naught  he  will  tell  of  distant  lands; 
He  cannot  even  press  their  hands. 

He  has  no  stories  weird  and  bright, 
He  has  no  gifts  for  a  child's  delight ; 
He  did  not  come  with  anything; 
He  had  not  even  himself  to  bring. 

Yet  they  will  softly  him  await, 
And  he  will  move  about  in  state ; 
They  will  give  him,  when  he  appears, 
Love,  and  pity,  and  tender  tears. 

Only  a  box,  secure  and  strong, 
Hough  and  wooden,  and  six  feet  long* 
Angels  guide  that  soulless  breast 
into  a  long  and  peaceful  rest  I 


HOME. 

[From  Farmer  Harrington's  Calendar.] 

JULY  1,  18—, 

BACK  to  the  old,  old  homestead ! — isn't  it  queer ! 
But  stranger  things  than  that  have  happened  here 
The  old  farm,  after  giving  oil  by  stream, 
(Until  the  world  itself  would  almost  seem 
About  to  lose  its  progress  smooth  and  true, 
And  creak  upon  its  axis,  first  we  knew), 
Closed  business  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye, 
And  every  blessed  well  we  had  went  dry ! 
Then  all  the  oil-springs  that  my  neighbors  had 
The  example  followed — be  it  good  or  bad; 
And  the  whole  region  round  here,  high  and  low, 
So  full  of  wealth  a  few  short  months  ago — 
And  men,  to  get  their  circumstances  oiled— 
Is  now  poor  farm-land,  pretty  nearly  spoiled ! 
The  little  town  a  mile  away  from  here, 
Where  we  sold  eggs  and  butter  many  a  year, 
(And  feared  the  neighbors'  hens  might  over-lay, 
And  glut  the  market  some  sad  Saturday), 
From  a  few  grown-up  folks,  a  small  child-crop, 
A  church,  post-office,  store,  and  blacksmith  shop, 
This  village  grew  to  be,  within  a  year, 
A  town  of  fifteen  thousand  people  clear. 
It  had  its  banks,  its  street-cars,  and  its  gas, 
And  other  wonders  cities  bring  to  pass; 


Home.  1 7 1 

Its  house-yards  sold  for  twice  as  much,  I  know, 
As  my  old  farm  was  worth  three  years  ago. 
But  the  town  did  not  grow  on  brain  or  soil. 
But  floated  on  a  hidden  sea  of  oil, 
Which  ebbed  away,  one  evening,  on  the  sly, 
And  left  "  the  city "  stranded  high  and  dry. 
And  now  the  place  is  crumbling  to  the  gaze — 
A  modern  ruin  in  these  modern  days : 
No  banks,  no  street-cars,  no  hotels  in  town— 
The  mansions  have  been  burned  or  taken  down. 
It  shows  how  soon  all  greatness  is  unmade 
When  once  it  gets  upon  the  down-hill  grade ! 

So  we've  come  back  to  take  our  former  farm, 
Fix  it  up  somehow,  coax  back  its  old  charm, 
And  live  here — by  the  city  noise  unstirred— 
To  cogitate  on  what  we've   seen  and  heard 
While  living  in  a  bustle  and  a  brawl 
That  sometimes  hardly  let  us  think  at  all. 
The  old  house  was  kept  whole  in  every  part 
(I  had  that  put  in  writing  on  the  start), 
And  though  the  farm   seems  very  much  as  though 
An  earthquake  had  lived  here  a  year  or  so, 
We  mean  to  try  and  make  it  seem,  some  week, 
More  as  it  did  before  it  sprung  a  leak. 

First  thing  I  said,  when  home  began  to  fit, 

And  thus  afford  us  time  to  breathe  a  bit : 

"We've  been  out  to  the  city,  now,  my  dear, 

Let's  bring  a  small  part  of  the  city  here. 

I'm  going,  on  this  very  day,  to  send 

For  several  children  such  as  need  a  friend, 

And  have  them  come  out  here  and  get  some  air. 

With  room  to  turn  around,  and  some  to  spare." 

I  wrote  some  men  and  women  in  the  city, 
Who  give  poor  children  help,  as  well  as  pity, 
"Send  out  as  many  as  you  can  afford! 
And  every  one  shall  have  a  month's  clean  board, 


172  City  Ballads. 

And  carry  back,  from  out  our  plenteous  store, 
Enough  to  keep  himself  a  fortnight  more." 

The  first  night  that  we  sat   expecting  them, 

I  did  what  some  whole  families  would  condemn- 

I  moulded  up  my  feelings  into  rhyme, 

In  something  less  than  fifteen  minutes'  time, 

Then  voiced  it  to  whoever  would  come  near; 

I'll  put  the  imposition  right  in  here : 


"AND  CARRY  BACK,  FROM  OUT  OUR  PLENTEOUS  STORE, 

ENOUGH   TO   KEEP   HIMSELF   A   FORTNIGHT    MORE." 


[LET  THE  CLOTH  BE  WHITE.] 

Go  set  the  table,  Mary,  an'  let  the  cloth  be  white! 

The  hungry  city  children  are  comin'  here  to-night ; 

The  children  from  the  city,  with  features  pinched  an'  spare, 

Are  comin'  here  to  get  a  breath  of  God's  untainted  air. 

They  come  from  out  the  dungeons  where  they  with  want  were  chained ; 
From  places  dark  an'  dismal,  by  tears  of  sorrow  stained ; 
From  where  a  thousand  shadows  are  murdering  all  the  light : 
Set  well  the  table,  Mary  dear,  an'  let  the  cloth  be  white ! 

They  ha'  not  seen  the  daisies  made  for  the  heart's  behoof; 
They  never  heard  the  rain-drops  upon  a  cottage  roof ; 


Home.  1 7  5 

They  do  not  know  the  kisses  of  zephyr  an'  of  breeze ; 
They  never  rambled  wild  an'  free  beneath  the  forest  trees. 

The  food  that  they  ha'  eaten  was  spoiled  by  others'  greeds ; 
The  very  air  their  lungs  breathed  was  full  o'  poison  seeds ; 
The  very  air  their  souls  breathed  was  full  o'  wrong  an'  spite  : 
Go  set  the  table,  Mary  dear,  an'  let  the  cloth  be  white ! 

The  fragrant  water-lilies  ha'  never  smiled  at  them ; 
They  never  picked  a  wild-flower  from  off  its  dewy  stem ; 
They  never  saw  a  greensward  that  they  could  safely  pass 
Unless  they  heeded  well  the  sign  that  says  "Keep  off  the  grass.1' 

God  bless  the  men  and  women  of  noble  brain  an'  heart, 
Who  go  down  in  the  folk-swamps  an'  take  the  children's  part — 
Those  hungry,  cheery  children  that  keep  us  in  their  debt, 
An'  never  fail  to  give  us  more  of  pleasure  than  they  get ! 

Set  well  the  table,  Mary ;  let  naught  be  scant  or  small ; 
The  little  ones  are  coming;  have  plenty  for  'em  all. 
There's  nothing  we  should  furnish  except  the  very  best 
To  those  that  Jesus  looked  upon  an'  called  to  him  an'  blessed. 


[From  Arthur  Selwyn's  Note-book.} 

Oh,  Home — restful  home !  theme  of  praise  and  of  song ! 
Where  the  heart  has  its  refuge,  unfailing  and  strong ; 
Where  the  cares  of  the  world  sign  a  partial  release, 
And  the  soul  can  lie  down  to  a  sweet  sleep  of  peace  I 
The  mine  whence  we  dig  out  affection's  pure  gold, 
The  fire  where  we  warm  our  poor  hearts  when  they're  cold! 
The  grand,  tender  chorus,  by  love's  fingers  stirred, 
Where  all  the  sweet  tones  of  the  soul-life  are  heard ! 


But  he  who  in  thy  praises  was  sweetest  and  best — 
Who  wrote  that  great  song  full  of  soothing  and  rest — 


i  76  City  Ballads. 

"  Through  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 
Be  it  never  so  humble,  there's  no  place  like  home" — 
He  who,  in  a  moment  unfettered  by  art, 
Let  that  heavenly  song  fly  from  the  nest  of  his  heart, 
He  wandered  the  earth,  all  forgot  and  alone, 
And  ne'er  till  he  died  had  a  home  of  his  own ! 
He  wandered  the  earth  at  his  own  dreary  will, 
And  carried  his  great  heavy  heart  with  him  still ; 
He  carried  his  great  heavy  heart  o'er  the  road, 
With  no  one  to  give  him  a  lift  with  his  load ; 
And  wherever  he  wrent,  with  his  lone,  dreary  tread, 
He  found  that  his  sweet  song  had  flown  on  ahead! 
He  heard  its  grand  melodies'  chimes  o'er  and  o'er, 
From  great  bands  that  played  at  the  palace's  door; 
He  heard  its  soft  tones  through  the  cottages  creep, 
From  fond  mothers  singing  their  babies  to  sleep ; 
But  he  wandered  the  earth,  all  forgot  and  alone, 
And  ne'er  till  in  Heaven  had  a  home  of  his  own! 


Of  course — be  it  said  to  the  poor  fellow's  shame — 

There  was  no  one  on  earth  but  himself  he  could  blame. 

God  meant,  when  he  made  this  world  cheerful  and  bright, 

Then  looked  it  all  over  and  said  'twas  all  right, 

Then  stole  Adam's  rib  while  he  lay  fast  asleep, 

And  when  he  awoke  gave  it  to  him  to  keep — 

He  meant  that  this  world,  as  he  gazed  on  it  there, 

Should  blossom  with  homes,  rich  and  radiant  and  fair; 

That  his  chain  of  love-gold,  flung  from  Heaven's  glittering  dome, 

Should  be  forged  into  links,  and  each  link  be  a  home! 


This  Adam  and  Eve  more  advantages  carried, 
Than  any  young  couple  that  ever  was  married. 
They'd  a  nice,  cozy  home,  unencumbered  and  free, 
Save  a  slight  reservation  on  one  little  tree ; 


1 1 

55     K 
ce     H 

ii 

8  S 


Home. 

They  toiled  not  and  sweat  not  in  tilling  their  lands ; 

Their  orchards  were  trimmed  by  invisible  hands ; 

They  were  bothered  by  no  tailors'  bills  over-due ; 

Their  dress-makers'  bills  were  quite  moderate,  too ; 

No  tax-ghost  each  year  their  scared  domicile  haunted, 

To  find  out  how  much  more  they  owned  than  they  wanted ; 

In  sooth  this  young  pair  more  advantages  carried 

Than  any  young  couple  that  ever  was  married ! 


And  if,  when  Eve  spied  that  large  serpent  one  day, 

She  had  acted  the  usual  feminine  way, 

And  piercingly  screamed,  and  run,  reckless  and  blind, 

As  if  Satan  were  only  two  minutes  behind, 

Then  Adam,  rnan-like,  had  soothed  sweetly  her  fright, 

Saying,  "What  do  you  fear?  'tisn't  poison;  'twon't  bite;" 

Then,  catching  a  club,  he  had  towered  up  above  it, 

And  promptly  had  pounded  the  devil  out  of  it, 

'Twould  have  saved  some  hot  tears,  some  hard  toil,  some  disgrace, 

And  been  a  great  thing  for  the  whole  human  race. 

But  they  treated  him  kindly,  and  gave  him  his  say, 

And  'twas  not  very  long  ere  himself  was  to  pay. 


Since  then  this  same  Satan,  whatever  befalls, 

Is  noted  for  making  his  family  calls ; 

Some  families — shame  on  the  impudent  wretch  ! — 

He  stays  with  at  times  for  a  week  at  a  stretch ; 

And  some  it  would  seem  as  if,  pleased  with  the  fare, 

He  had  taken  his  permanent  residence  there ! 

But  when  to  his  dear  friends  these  visits  he  makes, 

He  doesn't  always  come  in  the  persons  of  snakes. 


So  the  Science  of  Home  is  the  chiefest  of  all 
To  ward  off  these  dangers  that  ever  befall; 


j8o  City  Ballads. 

To  beat  back  these  devils  of  discord  and  sin, 
That  always  are  striving  to  steal  their  way  in ; 
To  use  all  the  means  God  hath  placed  in  our  sight, 
To  keep  our  homes  innocent,  happy,  and  bright ; 
For  a  home  that  rejoices  in  love's  saving  leaven, 
Comes  delicionsly  nigh  to  the  splendors  of  Heaven! 


Still  through  the  city  I  wander; 
Still  do  I  study  and  ponder; 
But  with  no  loneliness  round  me ; 
Severed — the  black  cords  that  bound  me! 
No  more  my  spirit  is  weary ; 
I  have  a  home,  bright  and  cheery ; 
Full  of  love's  sweet,  saving  leaven : 
Home  is  the  daughter  of  Heaven. 


THE   END. 


SELECTED  HOME  READING. 


Cai'Ielon's  Poetical  Works, 

Illustrated.     Square  8vo,  Ornamental  Cloth,  $2  00;  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50. 
FARM  BALLADS.     By  WILL  CARLETOX. 
FARM  LEGENDS.     By  WILL  CARLETOX. 
FARM  FESTIVALS.     By  WILL  CARLETOX. 
CITY  BALLADS.     By  WILL  CARLETOX. 

YOUNG  FOLKS'  CENTENNIAL  RHYMES.  By  WILL  CARLETON.  Illus 
trated.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

English's  Poetical  Works, 

THE  BOY'S  BOOK  OF  BATTLE  LYRICS.  By  THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH, 
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AMERICAN  BALLADS.  By  THOMAS  DUNN  ENGLISH,  M.D.,  LL.D.  32mo, 
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Harper's  Cyclopedia  of  British  and  American  Poetry, 

Harper's  Cyclopedia  of  British  and  American  Poetry.  Edited  by  EPES 
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Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century, 

Poets  of  the  Nineteenth  Century.  Selected  and  Edited  by  the  Rev. 
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The  Poets  and  Poetry  of  Scotland, 

From  the  Earliest  to  the  Present  Time.  Comprising  Characteristic  Se 
lections  from  the  Works  of  the  more  Noteworthy  Scottish  Poets,  with 
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Friendly  Edition  of  Shakespeare's  Works, 

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Shakspeare's  Dramatic  Works, 

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REED.  Illustrated.  6  vols.,  Royal  12mo,  Cloth,  $9  00;  Sheep,  $11  40. 


Selected  Home  Reading 


Uolfe's  English  CfassicSr 

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Flexible  Cloth,  56  cents  per  volume;  Paper,  40  cents  per  volume. 

SELECT  POEMS  OF  GOLDSMITH. — SELECT  POEMS  OF  THOMAS  GRAY. 

SHAKESPEARE'S  THE  TEMPEST. — MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. — KINO  HEN 
RY  THE  EIGHTH. — JULIUS  CAESAR. — RICHARD  THE  SECOND. — MACBETH. — 
MIDSUMMER  NIGHT'S  DREAM. — KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH. — KING  JOHN. 
—As  You  LIKE  IT. — KING  HENRY  IV.  Part  I. — KING  HENRY  IV. 
Part  II. — HAMLET. — MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING. — ROMEO  AND  JULIET. 
— OTHELLO. — TWELFTH  NIGHT. — THE  WINTER'S  TALE. — RICHARD  THE 
THIRD. — KING  LEAR. — ALL'S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. — CORIOLANUS. 
—TAMING  OF  THE  SHREW. — CYMBELINE. — THE  COMEDY  OF  ERRORS.— 
ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. — MEASURE  FOR  MEASURE. — MERRY  WIVES 
OF  WINDSOR. — LOVE'S  LABOUR'S  LOST. — TIMON  OF  ATHENS. — Two  GEN 
TLEMEN  OF  VERONA. — TROILUS  AND  CRESSIDA. — HENRY  VI.  Part  I. 
—HENRY  VI.  Part  II. — HENRY  VI.  Part  III. — PERICLES,  PRINCE  OF 
TYRE. — THE  Two  NOBLE  KINSMEN, — VENUS  AND  ADONIS,  &c. — SON 
NETS. — TITUS  ANDRONICUS. 

Folk-Lore  of  Shakespeare. 

By  the  Rev.  T.  F.  TIIISELTON  DYER,  M.A.,  Oxon.     8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

Shakspere :  A  Critical  Study  of  his  Mind  and  Art, 

By  EDWARD  DOWDEN,  LL.D.,  Vice-President  of  "The  New  Shakspere 
Society."  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

The  Works  of  Oliver  Goldsmith, 

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Sheep,  $10  00;  Half  Calf,  $17  00. 

Swinton's  Studies  in  English  Literature, 

Studies  in  English  Literature  :  being  Typical  Selections  of  British  and 
American  Authorship,  from  Shakespeare  to  the  Present  Time  ;  together 
with  Definitions,  Notes,  Analyses,  and  Glossary,  as  an  aid  to  Systematic 
Literary  Study.  By  Professor  WILLIAM  SAVINTON,  A.M.,  Author  of 
"Harper's  Language  Series."  With  Portraits.  Crown  8vo,  Cloth,  $1  50. 

Tennyson's  Songs,  with  Music, 

Songs  from  the  Published  Writings  of  Alfred  Tennyson.  Set  to  Music 
by  various  Composers.  Edited  by  W.  G.  CUSINS.  With  Portrait  and 
Original  Illustrations  by  Winslow  Homer,  C.  S.  Reinhart,  A.  Fredericks, 
and  Jessie  Curtis.  Royal  4to,  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  $5  00. 

Complete  Works  of  Alfred,  Lord  Tennyson, 

Poet-Laureate.  With  an  Introductory  Sketch  by  ANNE  THACKERAY 
RITCHIE.  With  Portraits  and  Illustrations.  Pages  430.  8vo,  Cloth, 
$2  00;  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50. 


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COWPER'S   TASK.     A  Poem  in  Six  Books.     By   WILLIAM  COWPER. 
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Selected  Home  Reading. 


Uayne's  Lessons  From  My  Masters, 

Lessons  from  My  Masters  :  Carlyle,  Tennyson,  and  Ruskin.  By  PETER 
BAYNE,  M.A.,  LL.D.  12mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

English  Literature  in  the  Eighteenth  Century, 

By  THOMAS  SERGEANT  PERRY.     12mo,  Cloth,  $2  00. 

Coleridge's  Ancient  Mariner,    Illustrated  by  Dore, 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner.     By  SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 

Illustrated  by  GUSTAVE  DORE.     Folio,  Cloth,  $10  00. 

Poe's  Raven,    Illustrated  by  Dore, 

The  Raven.  By  EDGAR  ALLAN  POE.  Illustrated  by  GUSTAVE  DORE. 
With  Comment  by  E.  C.  STEDMAN.  Folio  (Uniform  with  Dore's  Ancient 
Mariner},  Illuminated  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  and  in  a  neat  Box,  $10  00. 

Herrick's  Poems,    .Illustrated  by  Abbey, 

Selections  from  the  Poetry  of  Robert  Herrick.  With  Drawings  by  ED 
WIN  A.  ABBEY.  4to,  Illuminated  Cloth,  Gilt  Edges,  $7  50.  (In  a  Box.} 

The  Book  of  Gold,  and  other  Poems, 

By  J.  T.  TROWBRIDGE.    HIM.    8vo,  Ornamental  Covers,  Gilt  Edges,  $2  50. 

Halpine's  (Miles  O'Reilly)  Poems, 

With  a  Biographical  Sketch  and  Explanatory  Notes.  Edited  by  ROB 
ERT  B.  ROOSEVELT.  Portrait  on  Steel.  Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

Symonds's  Works, 

STUDIES  OF  THE  GREEK  POETS.     By  J.  A.  SYMONDS.     Revised  and  En 
larged  by  the  Author.     In  two  Volumes.     Square  16mo,  Cloth,  $3  50. 
SKETCHES   AND   STUDIES   IN   SOUTHERN  EUROPE.     By  J.  A.  SYMONDS. 
In  two  Volumes.     Post  8vo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Mahaffy's  Greek  Literature, 

A  History  of  Classical  Greek  Literature.  By  J.  P.  MAHAFFY.  2  vols., 
12mo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Simcox's  Latin  Literature, 

A  History  of  Latin  Literature,  from  Ennius  to  Boethius.  By  GEORGE 
AUGUSTUS  SIMCOX,  M.A.  In  Two  Volumes.  12mo,  Cloth,  $4  00. 

Deshler's  Afternoons  with  the  Poets, 

Afternoons  with  the  Poets.     By  C.  D.  DESHLER.     16mo,  Cloth,  $1  75. 

Songs  of  Our  Youth, 

Set  to  Music.     By  Miss  MULOCK.     Square  4to,  Cloth,  $2  50. 

Our  Children's  Songs,    Illustrated, 

Selected  and  Arranged  by  the  Rev.  S.  IRENJEUS  PRIME,  D.D.  f  8vo, 
Cloth,  $1  00.  

PUBLISHED   BY  HARPER   &   BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 

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